


The Gift Receipt

by WelpThisIsHappening



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas Fluff, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-12 23:17:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 46,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16881132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WelpThisIsHappening/pseuds/WelpThisIsHappening
Summary: It genuinely makes sense in her head.After all, Mary Margaret is being Mary Margaret and Emma just needs five seconds to herself and for her friends to get off her back and saying she can’t talk to Killian Jones because she and Killian Jones once went on a very bad date is the perfect excuse. It’s also not true, but whatever. It works.Until Emma needs to bring someone home for Christmas. To get the entire town off her back. So, she comes up with another plan and another lie and pretending to get back together with a guy she was never actually with will make their inevitable break-up incredibly easy. It makes sense. Seriously.That is, of course, until Killian agrees and there’s far too much pie and radio hits of the 70s and opinions on animated Christmas classics. It gets a little more complicated after that.





	1. Chapter 1

“Mary Margaret, I swear, if you don’t stop staring at me like that, I’m going to scream.”  
  
“I’m not doing anything.”  
  
“You are. Currently. With your face.”  
  
“Well, yeah, that’s how staring works.”  
  
“I thought you weren’t staring.”  
  
Mary Margaret’s eyes widen, enough that Emma laughs and the noise almost doesn’t sound entirely sarcastic. Almost. There’s a bit of triumph in there too, but Emma figures that doesn’t mean much when the triumph is so, decidedly, sarcastic.

And Mary Margaret is still staring at her like some sad, broken thing in a bridesmaid’s dress she’s never going to get any more use out.

“You should have been a lawyer,” Mary Margaret mumbles, leaning around Emma to grab the drinks they were waiting on.

“I really don’t think arguing about the state of your face is a direct sign that I would have passed the bar. Plus, you know, there are all those rules.”  
  
“Rules?”  
  
“Yeah, you know, I can’t actually call anyone an asshole if I’m trying to sway a jury.”  
  
Mary Margaret makes a less-than-dignified noise into her drink, pulling her lips back behind her teeth when several different people threaten to gape at them. Emma isn’t sure if it’s because they’re lurking by the bar or because their dresses are incredibly red, but she’s slightly certain it’s neither one of those things.

Her speech did not go great.

And, really, she’d told Ruby that she wasn’t cut out for that, but then Ruby had made _that_ face – some kind of pout she’d perfected when she was sixteen and Granny threatened to move curfew to eleven instead of midnight and it had taken Emma approximately forty-seven and a half seconds to wilt under pressure.

She honestly would have made the worst lawyer in the history of the world.

So, Emma stood in front of the crowd at a wedding that was, not technically, holiday-themed, but was pretty damn close and stumbled over the words, promises about love and emotion and how much better Belle made Ruby. In retrospect, that part of the speech might have been kind of offensive.

She’d told Ruby it should have been Mary Margaret.

But then Ruby had made the very good point that Mary Margaret probably would have started to cry during her speech and, well, that was true. Emma, at least, didn’t mess up her makeup while waxing poetic about feelings she didn’t entirely believe in, but her cynicism had been obvious in every single word and she was treading somewhere between feeling horrible and not at all surprised and at least three quarters of her muscles wanted to run out towards Fifth Avenue and never look back.

Because the wedding was being held in Bryant Park.

It was totally holiday-themed.

Their dresses were so goddamn red.

“Yeah, that’s probably true,” Mary Margaret admits, taking another sip of her drink. Emma hasn’t touched hers yet. That feels like a sign – that she wants to pointedly ignore.

“See. No dice on the lawyer. I think I’ll stick to chasing down the criminals. Let the rest of the justice system do its job after that.”  
  
“Are you guys talking trash about the justice system?”

Emma rolls her eyes as soon as she hears David’s voice – mostly because Mary Margaret’s smile is suddenly so sugary sweet it threatens to rot the teeth of everyone in the room. He chuckles when he notices Emma’s slouched shoulders, suit jacket long gone and a flush to his cheeks that hadn’t been there a few hours before.

“I don’t know how you got trash talk out of that,” Emma mutters, leaning back against the bar and she wonders how long she can stay at this wedding before it becomes socially acceptable for her to leave.

_She is the worst._

“Eh, it was said with a certain hint of bitterness,” David says. He slings an arm over Mary Margaret’s shoulders as soon as he’s within reach, her own arms wrapping around his middle and it’s a picture of _something_ that makes Emma’s stomach twist uncomfortably.

“Yeah, that’s kind of the theme for the evening it’d seem,” Mary Margaret mumbles. Emma clicks her tongue.  
  
“Aw, c’mon, that’s not fair, at all. And decidedly out of character for you.”  
  
Mary Margaret can’t shrug. David’s arm is in the way. She tries anyway. “Did you or did you not say, and I’m quoting here, that love had taken some of the bite out of Ruby’s approach to the world?”  
  
“And something about claws, I think,” David adds.

Emma groans, letting her head roll back. That’s exactly what she’d said. She wasn’t sure where she got the wolf theme from, but she hadn’t really planned her speech and that was probably her first mistake. “If you think about it,” Emma starts, “those are actually kind of compliments.”

David and Mary Margaret make matching contradictory noises and they all spend far too much time together.

“Is it though?” Mary Margaret asks.

Emma refuses to meet her gaze. David makes that noise again.

And, really, the whole thing is absolutely, positively Emma’s fault – because she’s some kind of bitter shell of a human at this point, with a certainty that love does not, in fact, conquer all, at least when it comes to her and her life and everyone else around her seems bound and determined to prove her wrong.

It’s not a great mindset to have around Christmas.

Or, well, any time really, but especially at Christmas.

The whole thing makes her feel as lonely as she’s ever felt, despite being surrounded by nearly everyone she’s ever met or ever cared about and it’s suddenly very difficult for Emma to take a deep breath.

It’s also right around then that she decides she’d like to get incredibly drunk.

“I told Ruby I didn’t want to give the speech,” Emma says, not for the first time and she needs to set some alarms on her phone so she can keep apologizing to both Ruby and Belle once every hour. “This is...it’s not my thing.”  
  
Mary Margaret makes a slightly different noise, not quite sympathetic, but getting there and Emma feels as if she’s been thrown in a snowbank. She takes a rather large gulp of her drink.

“Please stop making these rather judgmental noises.”  
  
“I’m not doing that,” Mary Margaret argues, but David mumbles _ehhh_ under his breath. That almost gets Emma to laugh. She finishes her drink.

“At least it’s a good story,” he reasons.

Emma is going to do permanent damage to her throat if she keeps groaning. “Aw, God, that’s even worse than whatever Mary Margaret is trying to do.”  
  
“What is Mary Margaret trying to do?”  
  
“Set me up with someone at this wedding.”

David doesn’t look particularly surprised – and that’s fair. It’s one-hundred percent like Mary Margaret to do something like that because it is one-hundred percent like Mary Margaret to care, almost too much, about Emma’s happiness.

It had been that way since they were teenagers and, occasionally, ignoring curfews together and Ruby would probably help if she weren’t a little annoyed that Emma had messed up the bridesmaid’s speech at her wedding. She’d probably given Mary Margaret a list of eligible bachelors at the reception anyway, just on the off chance that Emma agreed to any of this insanity.

That, however, would be some kind of Christmas miracle.

Because Emma Swan, a failure as a bridesmaid and growing more and more tipsy by the moment had done _love_ and _feeling_ before and it had all blown up in her face. She was better on her own, anyway.

There was no one to question her work schedule or worry incessantly about her overnight stakeouts and, sure, it had been nice when someone that wasn’t Mary Margaret or David or Ruby wanted to double check she’d brought hand warmers because the heat her car was notoriously bad, but Emma didn’t need that.

She didn’t need anyone.

She was good. As is. Or was. Whatever tense. No matter what.

Getting set up at a wedding, _at Christmas_ , was a ridiculous cliché.

“Did you really expect anything less?” David asks, and Emma can shrug. No one’s arm is around her shoulder. She might honestly be drunk already.

“I did not.”  
  
“Then, you know…”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
Emma narrows her eyes, because it’s almost too obvious that David does know and has known and the tenses still don't really matter. They honestly all spend far too much time together. It’s probably because they all moved to New York together, like some kind of coming-of-age movie and half the food in Emma’s fridge is there because Mary Margaret put it there.

Mary Margaret has a key to Emma’s apartment.

Mostly to feed her. And make sure she’s not suffering from internal bleeding after dealing with potentially dangerous skips. Those are David’s words though, opinions formed by the actual law enforcement he’s a part of and he’d saved all his PTO to get this weekend and the week between Christmas and New Year’s off.

Emma’s got a bet with Ruby that he’s going to ask Mary Margaret to marry him. It seems likely; like a movie, or something.

“What?” David prompts when Emma doesn’t say anything else. “I can hear the gears turning in your head.”  
  
“Are you suggesting I’m some kind of machine, Nolan?”  
  
She’s going to get coal in her stocking because she’d done it entirely for the reaction, but Mary Margaret’s lips quirk and Emma takes that as a victory. “That’s not what I said at all,” David mutters. “I just…”  
  
“Yuh huh?”  
  
“Ok, you have to promise not to throw your drink at me.”  
  
“I finished my drink,” Emma points out. Her cheeks are starting to feel warm, an almost pleasant buzz tugging at the back of her mind as she waves down the bartender. It’s an open bar. She’ll have to thank Ruby for that at some point.

Maybe after she apologizes.

Again.

Indefinitely.

Every Christmas for the rest of her life.

“What are you drinking?” David asks, an absolutely horrible attempt to deflect the conversation he started. Emma lifts her eyebrows. “If it’s wine, you’re going to have a shit hangover tomorrow. You are not twenty-three anymore.”  
  
“Man, the opinions just get more and more scathing, don’t they? Are you going to tell your story, Nolan or what’s your deal?”  
  
He huffs, but Mary Margaret isn’t even trying to hold back her laugh at this point and she’s always been an incredible lightweight. None of them are twenty-three anymore. That feels like another sign.

“My deal is that I was outside before because my mom was leaving and--”  
  
“--Your mom left already?” Mary Margaret asks sharply, and Emma can hear the undercurrent of nerves in her voice.

“I doubt she’s personally insulted that you didn’t say goodbye to her, M’s,” Emma reasons. “Plus, you know Ruth, all this noise and the lights. It’s...it’s not small town Storybrooke.” David tilts his head, probably because the words threaten to burn a hole in the ozone, so drenched in acid Emma can’t believe they don’t fuck up her tongue. “Stop that,” she warns, but he holds up his free hand. “Can you get to your point, please?”  
  
“The point is that my mom was leaving and she was talking to Granny who, you know...was talking about Christmas at home and plans and, maybe, expressed some concern that…”

He trails off, teeth digging into his lower lip. Emma briefly wonders if her face will stick in the scowl it’s currently in.

She doesn’t dwell on that thought though, just the three quick gulps of Pinot that land with an almost audible thump in her stomach.

And she knows how the sentence was going to end anyway, because Mary Margaret and Ruby have been trying to set her up at a variety of family and decidedly non-family events for years, certain if she just _opened herself up_ she’d meet someone, anyone that she’d be willing to bring home for the Storybrooke Christmas extravaganza that happened every year.

That wasn’t really what it was called.

It deserved a name though – three days of schedules and sweets, pies and tree lightings and events that were as much a part of Emma as the bitterness that seemed to grow more pronounced the longer she stood in front of David and Mary Margaret. It was home in the way she’d never expected until she stumbled into it because her bitterness had started long before she landed in Storybrooke and, it seemed, all Storybrooke wanted was for her to add someone, _anyone_ , to the mix.

Like it was a cookie recipe or something.

They had a cookie exchange too.

“You know,” Emma drawls, and she’s thankful for the bar behind her if only to ensure that her balance stays relatively balanced. “Telling me that your mom and Granny are gossiping about my relationship status on the same night M’s is doing whatever it is she’s doing with her face, is not really helping, like, anything.”

David doesn’t actually blush, but it’s a pretty close thing. He twists his lips, a sardonic expression that Emma has come to refer to as _detective angry face_. She mumbles those exact words under her breath, kicking lightly at his ankles.

It’s another mistake, she’s had far too much wine in the last fifteen minutes and the edges of her vision are starting to blur a bit, but David moves and he’s got one arm around Mary Margaret and the other on Emma’s hip and they’re a jumble of limbs and absurd dresses and the mutual certainty that most of Storybrooke has already spent the majority of December dissecting the potential of Emma Swan’s miniscule love life.

She waves down the bartender again.

“Just the messenger, Em,” David says, and Emma can hear those emotions too, as if he’s not upset, he’s just disappointed.

“That doesn’t make it any better, honestly.”  
  
“Yeah, I know that too.”  
  
Emma sighs, some of the fight falling out of her as soon as she hears the clink of another glass on the bartop behind her. “Are there new people coming this year?”  
  
“Are you speaking in tongues?”  
  
“Home,” she groans. “New people coming home. To Christmas.”  
  
“Why would you say that?”  
  
“Because you’re really, really bad at the face thing too. I mean, not Mary Margaret bad, but--”  
  
“--Ok, can we stop talking about my face like that?” Mary Margaret asks, but it doesn’t sound nearly as frustrated as it probably should. She pulls Emma’s glass out of her hand, taking a rather large sip of wine. “God, what is this, Pinot?”  
  
“Get your own drink then,” Emma mutters. Mary Margaret finishes the wine. “What do you know? And why have you been hiding it?”  
  
“Not hiding. Biding.”  
  
“Your time?”  
  
“Yes, because I thought--”  
  
Emma nearly growls, drawing a few more questioning looks because the end of that sentence seems to reach out and slap her across the face. “I am not hooking up with someone at this wedding and then bringing them home,” she hisses. “That is insane.”  
  
“That’s not what I’m suggesting,” Mary Margaret argues, and the words sound empty and a little placating, particularly when David scoffs loud enough that someone on Belle’s side of the family actually glares at them.

Emma rolls her eyes. “Oh my God. Seriously, between the two of you, it’s a wonder we can have one, cognizant conversation. You’re both horrible storytellers, you know that? Should I guess? Who’s not already paired up that they can bring someone home?”

She runs through the list in her head – Regina’s got Robin and two painfully adorable kids and Ruby and Belle aren’t even going to be there, some holiday honeymoon because that’s the week they could get off and _that_ will be weird, but Emma’s not so much of an asshole that she doesn’t hope they have fun. Elsa and Mulan always split the holidays, a strange tradition that’s almost equal fodder for Storybrooke gossip as Emma’s lack of significant other and--

“--Oh God, is it Ruth?” Emma sputters, not sure what response she’s worked out of her two closest friends.

Mary Margaret’s eyes threaten to fall out of her head and David’s jaw nearly hits the floor, words falling out of his mouth that lack any real syllables.

“No,” he growls. “Jeez, oh my God, that’s, Em are you--”  
  
“--It’s Anna,” Mary Margaret interrupts before this can dissolve into total and complete farce. “Anna is bringing home a guy and Elsa’s only kind of freaking out, but that’s happening and so, you know…”  
  
Emma does know. She wishes she would stop knowing. She wishes she didn’t feel like she already had a wine hangover. “Anna Rensdyr is bringing home a guy?” she balks, Mary Margaret already nodding. “But isn’t she an actual human child?”

“Em,” David sighs. “We all literally bought her a twenty-first birthday present over the summer.”

“Did we really?”  
  
Mary Margaret nods again. Or hasn’t ever stopped. “We did. And I can guarantee that she is bringing a guy because she told Regina. He doesn’t like apples, apparently.”  
  
“And Regina’s still going to let him in town?”

“Her mayoral powers do not extend that far.”  
  
“Eh,” Emma objects, but the sound quickly dissolves into another sigh because she’s nearly ten years older than Anna and she can’t imagine Regina would let any of her boyfriends, imaginary otherwise, refuse to eat the apple pie.

“So,” David continues. “You know, that’s the update and home is home and there’s talk and then you made that speech, so...the rumor mill is spinning. As it were.”  
  
“Right.”  
  
“And,” Mary Margaret adds, a note of _something_ in her voice that makes Emma stand up a little straighter. “I’m not suggesting that you should hook up with someone at this wedding and bring that same person home, but, uh...that guy in the corner keeps trying to make it look like he’s not blatantly staring at you.”

She has no idea what is happening in the pit of her stomach. It feels like nerves. Or butterflies. Maybe snowflakes. That’s more festive.

Emma turns her head slowly, ignoring the hammering of her pulse and the small tide of Pinot that’s churning in the very middle of her, and she might sigh out a quiet _oh_ under her breath.

She knows him.

Or, well, she knows of him – knows is generous and she’s not sure she’s met him more than once in anything except passing. He’s Belle’s side of the reception, a backstory Emma isn’t entirely aware of, but dimly remembers being kind of depressing and she’s not sure why she remembers the exact color of his eyes.

Like they’re branded on her memory or something equally ridiculous.

Killian Jones is not part of the group, metaphorically or otherwise.

Emma’s pretty positive he doesn’t actually live in New York, but he’s sitting at a far table in that reception, legs stretched out in front of him and his eyes don’t move when she stares at him. He’s not wearing his suit jacket either – it’s impossibly hot, somehow, despite being the middle of December and Emma assumes it’s because most of the people in that reception are dancing and drinking and not worried about the gossip of a small town in middle-of-nowhere Maine – but that’s probably for the best because the shirt he’s got n is honestly absurd and very likely tailored to fit him. That also seems kind of ridiculous, and really, almost a waste of money, but Emma’s not sure what Killian Jones does for a living, so it seems wrong to critique the way he conducts his finances.

He keeps looking at her.

And she keeps looking right back.

At some point his lips quirk, like he’s waiting for Emma to blink, but she’s a stubborn, bitter, asshole and she’s far too busy taking stock of his admittedly very attractive face anyway. There’s a slight angle to his hair, like he’s been running his fingers through it, and a shift to his shoulders, a bit of tension that Emma feels puts them on equal footing. Neither one of them are moving.

She can’t possibly see how blue his eyes are from this distance, but her mind does not care.

Emma licks her lips.

And Killian Jones smiles at her.

It feels like...something. Like the Earth shifts or pauses or starts spinning backwards and Emma is vaguely aware of Mary Margaret talking, mumbled words in her ear and David’s eyes boring into the side of her head and the wine in whatever glass she’s on now has gone warm.

“Do you know him?” Mary Margaret asks, a little clear that time and Emma nods numbly. Her tongue feels like it’s growing.

God, that’s gross.

“Yeah, uh--”  
  
“Maybe you should go over there?”  
  
“Should we all go over there?” David asks sharply, and Emma’s laugh sounds manic and cautious and everything is definitely spinning backwards.

She shakes her head, taking a drink she instantly regrets. “No, no, it’s, uh…” And, honestly, if asked, Emma will blame temporary insanity. Because she never entirely understand the next few words that come out of her mouth, the lie tasting as foul as the warm Pinot and Mary Margaret’s answering gasp is the loudest noise in all five boros. “That’s, uh, Killian Jones. He’s friends with Belle. We, uh...we went out on a very horrible date once.”

Emma squeezes her eyes closed as soon as she finishes the sentence, a rushing in her ears that very likely has to do with the suddenly incorrect alignment of the planets. David and Mary Margaret appear to each have several thousand questions  – when and why and why again – but Emma keeps shaking her head and trying to breathe and she is honestly the world’s biggest asshole.

She makes early-in-the-story Ebenezer Scrooge look like a standup guy. She’d probably claim she made out with Bob Cratchit at some point or something.

“Yeah, yeah,” she mumbles. “So, you know...no dice on that set-up, M’s.” Mary Margaret gapes at her, something almost like disbelief settling on her face. “It’s fine,” Emma promises, another lie and the room appears to be shrinking. “Just...I’m going to be fine going home and neither Ruth nor Granny need to worry and I’m really excited to see how Regina acts when Anna’s boyfriend won’t eat apple pie.”  
  
Mary Margaret blinks.

David looks like he’s frozen.

“So,” Emma continues, dragging the word out until it sounds like she’s reciting the 12 Days of Christmas. She needs to stop making so many Christmas puns. In her head. “I’m...going to get some air and I know you guys want to dance. You don’t have to babysit me anymore.”  
  
That wakes both of them up.

“That’s not what we were doing,” Mary Margaret whispers.

“Eh, kind of. But I’m good. And I’m totally going to surprise everyone with my ability to make the best pie this year.”

“You buy your pie every year,” David says, half a smile on his face.

Emma shrugs, already moving towards the nearest door. “No one knows that.”  
  
Ebenezer Scrooge did not lie this much. Everyone knows she buys her pie the day before she leaves for Storybrooke. It’s why there’s always so much of Emma’s pie left.

That might be a metaphor for her life.

Maybe the bartender will give her an entire bottle of Pinot.

“Ok, Emma,” Mary Margaret says. It’s the single most depressing sentence in the world and neither one of them try to stop her when she all but sprints across the room, heels clacking on the temporary floor and it’s absolutely, goddamn freezing as soon as Emma steps outside.

The air stings her lungs when she breathes in, blinking quickly to make sure she doesn’t manage to embarrass herself even more. There’s nowhere to sit, only a few inches of space because they’re in the middle of Bryant Park and there’s an ice skating rink a few feet away and shops selling overpriced items that no one actually wants for Christmas and that’s somehow even more bitter than before and--  
  
“Swan?”  
  
She clicks her teeth, the sound reverberating up her jaw and into her ears and possibly her soul, so it’s entirely likely Emma has gone completely insane.

She’s not nearly as surprised he’s remembered her name as she probably should be.

“Swan,” Killian repeats, the crunch of something under his shoes sounding impossibly loud. He’s moving slowly, like he’s approaching some kind of wounded or vaguely terrified animal. Emma still doesn’t move. “Would you like to explain why Mary Margaret Nolan just tried to turn me to stone with her eyes?”

Emma spins around so quickly she nearly falls over. That’s probably the wine. Probably. “What?”  
  
“It was a very impressive attempt, really. All intense glare and thin lips. I think her husband was debating the pros and cons of challenging me to a duel.”  
  
“That’s not her husband.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Not her husband,” Emma says again. “Yet, at least, but I’m pretty positive I’m going to get my fifty bucks, so you know…”  
  
Killian stares at her – all blue eyes and confusion, both of which are equally and separately distracting. A piece of Emma’s hair has fallen out of her rather ridiculous updo. “They’re really not married?” he asks, and the muscles in her neck do not appreciate the amount of head shaking she’s doing. “How is that possible?”  
  
“Because David’s obsessed with the perfect moment and Mary Margaret is a giant sentimental sap, so…”  
  
“Right, right, and you bet fifty bucks on…”  
  
“Them getting engaged by New Year’s.”  
  
“With?”  
  
“Ruby?”  
  
Emma isn’t entirely ready for his laugh. It shakes across the rather minimal amount of space between them, honest and almost joyful and she doesn’t shiver from the wind. She wraps her arms around her middle, holding onto something she’s only vaguely confident she actually has and Killian takes another step forward.

“That was a question,” he says, eyes flickering towards Emma’s lips when she starts to chew on her lower one.  
  
“I’d rather you didn’t mention that to Mary Margaret. Or David. Or, well, Ruby for that matter.”

“I don’t think I know any of them well enough for that, actually. That’s why I was so confused by the death glare.”  
  
“Mary Margaret really isn’t capable of that.”  
  
“Eh,” Killian laughs, and he’s close enough now that Emma swears she can feel the heat radiating off him. He’s not wearing his jacket. He’s holding it. And offering it to her. Maybe this is _A Christmas Carol_ scenario, where she sees all the things she could have or something. She hopes there aren’t any ghosts involved.

That won’t help the inevitable wine hangover she’s absolutely going to have.

“You didn’t see her,” he continues, shaking his arm when Emma keeps staring at his outstretched hand. “There are goosebumps all over your arm, love and, at last count you’ve shivered at least six times since I’ve come out here.”  
  
“Why are you keeping track of that?”  
  
Emma absolutely, positively does not acknowledge that he calls her love.

She stores it away instead, for posterity or something. Even Ebenezer Scrooge had a girlfriend that one time.

“I’m a real nice guy.”  
  
“Yeah, nice guys don’t actually say that.”  
  
Killian chuckles, another shake of fabric that looks incredibly warm. Emma grumbles, but she takes the jacket and they both widen their eyes when their fingers brush. There aren’t any sparks – this is not that kind of romantic comedy – but there may be something and it feels like electricity in her veins and a jolt to her entire being and Emma wonders if, maybe, the cliché is true. She feels as if she could get lost staring at him.

“Yeah, that’s fair,” he agrees, leaning forward to drape the jacket over her shoulders. “Why did Mary Margaret, who I honestly cannot believe is not married to David, try to kill me five minutes ago? I don’t think that goes with the theme of the wedding.”  
  
“There is no theme to this wedding.”

He makes another noise, a contradiction and a click of his tongue that should not nearly be as attractive as it is. Emma is, however, admittedly distracted by however his jacket smells. It’s easily the most ridiculous thing she’s ever thought.

“Is there not?” Killian asks. The smile that had been there before has evolved into a vaguely patronizing smirk and an arch to one eyebrow. Only one. Emma is personally offended by that.

“If you’re friends with Belle then you should know the answer to that question.”  
  
“I’m not sure I know the answer to any question at all at this point.”  
  
“Wow, that’s dramatic.”  
  
“And yet, I’m not the one who waxed poetic about the maybe healing powers of love before and then made some mad dash to the exit of this...what would you call a room like this?”  
  
“I think the technical term is temporary structure that required me to deliver several different permit requests more than a year ago.”  
  
Killian lets out a low whistle, lips quirking down and he almost looks impressed. “You made sure Ruby and Belle had the right permits to host this holiday extravaganza?”  
  
“Is that surprising?”

“You did make that rather pointed speech, love.”  
  
Emma doesn’t quite gag, but it’s a close thing, and she’s certainly not memorizing the sound of Killian’s laugh. She wonders if cold can make a person delirious. Shit, it’s probably the Pinot.

And how goddamn blue his eyes are.

“I told Ruby it shouldn’t have been me, but…” Emma shrugs, like that’s an explanation and Killian tilts his head. It’s not a question. He doesn’t actually push. And the words seem to tumble out of Emma. “I spent the first decade or so my life in a foster home and then, uh, I don’t know, the world decided to cut me a break or something and I ended up with Ruby and her grandmother--”

“--The woman critiquing the appetizers earlier?”  
  
“One and the same. So. Granny opened her house and her whole goddamn town to me and I...well, I never left again or went back into the system and Ruby’s the closest I’ve ever really had to an actual sister and, oh shit, don’t tell Mary Margaret that either. It’s really both of them and, I guess, David too, but he’s more an absurd overprotective brother and…”  
  
She cuts herself off as soon as Killian’s fingers curl around her shoulder and Emma hadn’t realized she’d started bobbing on the balls of her feet, eyes wide and breath coming in pants. The smirk evolves back into a smile.

“Did Ruby threaten you if you didn’t make a speech at her slightly holiday themed wedding?”  
  
“It’s not a holiday themed wedding,” Emma says. His hand is warm. “Kind of. And yes. Very much so.”  
  
“That may be the nicest thing I’ve ever heard.”  
  
“You’ve got a twisted sense of nice.”  
  
Killian hums, a flash in his gaze that makes the tide metaphor Emma forgot about rise up and drift dangerously close to a hurricane. “It does, however, still leave us with the rather glaring question of why the very unmarried Mary Margaret was glaring at me as if I had personally offended her or suggested that fruit cake was an acceptable substitute for candy canes.”

“This is not a holiday themed wedding!”

“Candy canes on every single table, Swan. And some kind of peppermint monstrosity for the reception drink.”  
  
Maybe he should have been the lawyer.  
  
Maybe he was a lawyer.

Emma had no idea what Killian Jones did.

“I argued very strongly against the peppermint drink,” Emma mumbles, drawing another quiet laugh out of him.

“What’s your drink of choice?”  
  
“I think the bartender was a little worried I was going to jump behind the counter and demand he hand over his entire stash of Pinot.”  
  
“That probably would have caused more of a scene than your speech.  
  
Emma makes a face, mouth dropping and eyes widening, but Killian does something ridiculous with his eyebrows, the tip of his tongue pressed into the corner of his mouth. She must be drunk, that’s the only reason any of this is working. Because this feels a hell of a lot like flirting.

“You just lost any self-proclaimed nice guy tendencies,” Emma says. “Did you actually try the peppermint monstrosity?”

“Ariel did.”

The jacket suddenly feels like several weights, threatening to yank Emma into the ground and she bites the side of her tongue. There are tourists everywhere, noises and the general sense of festive because they’re only a few weeks removed from Christmas and it may be a holiday themed wedding.

They’d taken bridal party photos with Santa Claus at Macy’s two days before.

And, really, Emma isn’t sure why she feels as if she’s lost her footing on the skating rink behind her, but it really had seemed like they were flirting and he’d been staring and he’d followed her out there.

He’d followed her.

“Not an actual date,” Killian says, rushing over the words with an honesty that makes Emma bite her tongue again.

“What?”  
  
“She’s not...Ariel knows Belle from Boston too and--”  
  
“--You live in Boston?”  
  
He nods slowly, running a hand through his hair. Emma does a triple axle – metaphorically. “I do. That’s how I met Belle. She and Ariel were working at ISG a couple years ago and I was doing research and..”  
  
“Is that code?”  
  
“It wouldn't be if you’d stop interrupting me,” Killian says. He’s still smiling, rocking towards her, possibly unconsciously and Emma hopes. She’s not sure for what, but it’s there. “The Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum is a very fancy art museum with very fancy art and Ariel was working on an exhibit there. She’s got an eye for those kinds of things. Belle had been working there as a kind of...historian, record keeper.”  
  
“And you?”  
  
“Hmmm?”

“What were you doing at that very fancy art museum with very fancy art?”

He ducks his eyes, which is only kind of surprising, the tips of his ears going red. Emma's smile feels as natural as anything she’s done all night. “Oh, uh, research,” Killian says.

“Research? Are you a secret nerd?”  
  
“It’s not a secret depending on who you ask.”  
  
“I’m asking you,” Emma mutters, and it feels like more flirting and balancing on the ice and she should have suggested some kind of boozy hot chocolate as the drink for the reception.

“Very much,” Killian grins. “You know Isabella showed up at the Boston Symphony in 1912 wearing a headband that said ‘Oh, you Red Sox’ on it? Caused a panic right there in the audience. A wealthy woman supporting baseball? She was fascinating.”  
  
“And you were...stalking her art collection?”

“Writing about her. Although, again, stalking may be the correct answer depending on who you ask. Ariel will agree with you.”  
  
Emma blinks, opening her mouth only to close it again because she’s kind of confused and slightly charmed and Killian’s fingers are tracing absent-minded patterns on her arm. She figures they’re absent-minded. Neither one of them has really mentioned it.

“You wrote--”  
  
“--a book,” he finishes. “Several, in fact.”  
  
“That’s insane.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“Yeah,” Emma nods. “That’s...how many books is several?”  
  
“Four?”  
  
“Four!”  
  
Killian arches an eyebrow. “It still doesn’t sound like a compliment, love.”

Emma is waffling somewhere between complete surprise, swooning and something that feels like guilt, so naturally the next question out of her mouth has nothing to do with anything. “Why’d you bring Ariel to this wedding?”  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“Ariel. She seems to have several sweeping opinions about the state of your whole being so…”  
  
“She’s friends with Belle, I just explained this.”  
  
“So she presumably would have been invited to the wedding on her own,” Emma continues. She needs to find a different Christmas character who is worse than Ebenezer Scrooge. That’s who she is. She’s...the ghost of Christmas past and current embarrassments.

Killian licks his lips, eyebrows staying frustratingly high and she can see a muscle in his jaw jump when he clenches it. “Presumably,” he agrees. “But her boyfriend wasn’t able to make it.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“And, uh…”  
  
“No, no, no,” Killian laughs, a distinct lack of humor in the sound. “I’m not giving away any more details until I get a few of my own. Mary Margaret tried to kill me, Swan. I want to know why and I want to know why you were out here without a jacket on.”  
  
“We didn’t get them with our dresses.”  
  
“That was the less interesting response.”  
  
“Yeah, it absolutely was.”  
  
“So,” Killian prompts, leaning towards her, which is almost impressive considering the distinct lack of space between them. There is heat radiating off him, Emma is certain. “Why the disappearing act and the death? Neither of those are festive.”  
  
Emma huffs, a put-upon sigh that she doesn’t deserve because she’s backed herself into this corner and he followed her out there. She still can’t wrap her head around that. “Ok, you have to promise not to freak out,” she warns, and Killian’s lips twitch. She’s staring at Killian’s lips.  
“Unfortunately for me I didn’t have any friends with conveniently out of town significant others to come to this wedding with me and Mary Margaret’s made it her duty in life to make sure I have some kind of dancing partner and--”

She takes another deep breath, tilting her head up and it’s half defiance, half determination. Killian doesn’t blink. “She maybe suggested that you were looking my way and that I could possibly dance with you--”  
  
“--Is that a euphemism?”  
  
“Not in this case,” Emma promises. “But, well, there’s been a whole thing about Christmas and going home and remember the quip about the Pinot before that was, like, half true and--”  
  
“--What did you tell her?” Killian asks.

“How do you know that?”  
  
“You’ve got a very expressive face, love. And you did look rather put out while you were at the bar. Even without the siege of Pinot.”  
  
“I knew you were staring!”  
  
“Yes, well, it’s a very red dress, isn’t it?”  
  
“Festive,” Emma mumbles, and she doesn’t remember moving her hands to rest flat on Killian’s chest. She’s got to drink some water. “Ok, you’re really not going to be mad?”  
  
“What did you tell Mary Margaret?”  
  
“That we’d gone on a date before and it ended badly.”  
  
He blinks. And blinks. And tilts his head. Only to tilt it to the other side. And blink again.

Emma grits her teeth.  
  
“I don’t…” Killian starts, shaking his head like he’s trying to wake up from this admittedly absurd dream. “Why?”  
  
“I genuinely have no idea.”  
  
“Are you kidding me?”  
  
“I would not joke about that,” Emma says. “This is why I was so serious about the not getting mad thing. Also, I’m sorry.”  
  
“Sorry?”  
  
“I barely even know you. I mean...how many times have we met?”  
  
“Enough that I’d like to believe any date we went on would be better than whatever you’d come up with.”  
  
“I didn’t come up with anything,” Emma argues. “There were no details. There was just a general sense of desperation to get my friends off my back for two seconds. I’d already fucked up the wedding with the--”  
  
“--You didn’t fuck up the wedding, love,” Killian interrupts sharply and there’s that word again and that tone again and Emma’s going to need stitches in her tongue.

“That’s an awfully generous opinion from a guy who barely evaded death tonight.”  
  
“Yeah, well, Mary Margaret’s very good at shooting those metaphorical daggers.”

Emma scoffs, but Killian is still smiling and maybe she was hoping for the laugh that seems to ring out around her. He throws his whole head back, the sound shaking its way through his body and out his fingertips, moving straight into her and through her and it feels as if it warms her from the inside out.

That may just be his jacket.

“You know this may be the most ridiculous thing that’s ever happened to me,” Killian mutters, laughter still clinging to his voice and his gaze is soft when it drifts back to Emma.

She’d probably melt the ice.

“I’m really, really sorry.”  
  
“You don’t have to apologize, Swan. I’m just upset our date ended badly enough that you wouldn’t even afford me a dance.”  
  
“What?”  
  
His grin is quick – a flash of teeth and lips that she’s far too preoccupied with and Emma swallows when Killian’s hand flits towards her waist. And she hadn’t really noticed before – part of her is loathe to realize she hadn’t really _remembered_ before – but there’s only one hand, a plastic prosthetic at the end of his left arm that’s probably part of the vaguely depressing backstory she’s only slightly aware of.

“A dance,” Killian repeats, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s either that or staging that conquest of Pinot you were suggesting before.”  
  
“That makes it sound way more epic than it is.”  
  
“And what is it, exactly?”  
  
“A distinct lack of plus-one and overbearing friends and…” Emma shrugs, not willing to drift into self-pity when there are so many tourists nearby and Killian’s fingers tapping on the fabric of her ridiculously red bridesmaid’s dress.

“A situation I’m entirely too familiar with,” he says. “So, what do you say? We give them a little bit of a show?”

“That sounds devious.”  
  
“God bless us, everyone.”

Emma’s laugh bubbles out of her – like opening a bottle of champagne, but that’s more New Year’s than Christmas and Killian doesn’t give her a moment to second-guess herself. His fingers lace through hers as he walks them back towards the makeshift dance floor, jacket still hanging off her shoulders and Emma can feel several thousand pairs of eyes follow them.

That last part may be an exaggeration.

She hopes there’s wine in her apartment.

“You going to let me lead, Swan?” Killian asks, hand still wrapped up in hers. It feels like an especially important question, but Emma rolls her eyes.

“Absolutely not.”  
  
“I figured as much.”

The music shifts – and Ruby was vocal about nearly every aspect of the wedding, but she’d been nearly terrifying about the music choices and Emma is not surprised when she hears the Beach Boys start to play.

She’s even less surprised by whatever Killian’s eyebrows do.

“Rubes loves this song,” Emma explains, humming out of habit and several summers of _Pet Sounds_ played on repeat. “This is not the first time she’s made the DJ play it.”  
  
Killian hums, the threat of more laughter tugging at his mouth. “I noticed that. Ariel and I debated doing shots every time we heard the _Love Actually_ song.”  
  
“Wait, what?”

“This song. They play it at the end of _Love Actually_ .”  
  
“I can’t believe you just tried to tell me that   _God Only Knows_ is the song from some God awful romantic comedy. Why are you aware of the soundtrack to _Love Actually_ ?”  
  
“Why do you think _Love Actually_ is a God awful romantic comedy?” Killian challenges.

Emma’s eyes are going to get frozen mid-roll. That’s a lie. She’s far too warm for that. She ignores the double-entendre there. “That’s easy. I’m super bitter and very anti-love.”  
  
“There’s probably a Buzzfeed quiz you can take to figure out how those particular characteristics make you one of the many relatable characters in _Love Actually_. Also, this proves my holiday-themed wedding point. There was one of those in the movie too.”  
  
“No there wasn’t!”  
  
Killian’s eyebrows fly up his forehead so quickly, Emma can’t quite believe he hasn’t defied every law of human biology in the process. It’s getting increasingly difficult to think when he keeps smiling at her.

He’s trying very hard not to touch her with his left hand.

“That so?” Killian asks archly, and Emma rolls her whole had that time. “Who would you say is Keira Knightley in this real-world scenario? Ruby or Belle?”  
  
“Did you not already take that Buzzfeed quiz?”  
  
“I’m asking for your opinion, Swan.”  
  
That feels like another incredibly important sentence. Emma inhales slowly, letting the oxygen fill her lungs to the point of over-capacity and Killian’s eyes don’t leave her face. If anything, they trace over it, taking stock and looking for something Emma isn’t entirely sure she wants him to find because he’s done a pretty good job of reading her already.

She feels bad about their bad fake date.

“Ruby is obviously Keira Knightley,” she says, doing her best to sound like she’s annoyed by the conversation. “If only because she’ll demand perfection from the videographer and she’d also freak out if every visual of her was blue on her wedding day.”

“You seem awfully well acquainted with this God awful romantic comedy.”  
  
“It’s not cute to just keep throwing my own words back at me.”  
  
“That suggests it could be cute if I did something differently though,” Killian smiles. A real, genuine smile. Emma’s heart races. “So I’ll take that into consideration. What don’t you like about _Love Actually_ , Swan?”  
  
“That Keira Knightley storyline is actually super creepy.”  
  
“Yes, it is, next?”  
  
“How do you know there’s a next?”  
  
“Because I can practically hearing you fuming with opinions. Next.”

Emma clicks her tongue again, but she’s still kind of swooning and they’ve moved on to a different song. It’s only a matter of time until the Beach Boys play again. Ruby is nothing if not predictable.

And it’s probably good Killian and Ariel didn’t do shots – they’d be dead.

“Natalie was not fat at all,” Emma starts, Killian humming in agreement. “The body double part is...weird.”  
  
“They cut that out a lot on TV.”  
  
“How often are you watching this movie?”  
  
He squeezes her hand. “Enough. Keep going.”  
  
“That one guy literally went to America to fuck girls. Alan Rickman was a total jerk and Laura Linney should have just explained her situation to that guy. He was clearly super into her, he definitely would have been cool about it.”  
  
“I’ve never understood that part,” Killian admits. “But then, I guess, if people actually talk about their problems in movies like that, there’s not much of a movie.”  
  
Emma makes a dismissive noise in the back of her throat. “Also, as mentioned, the guy from _The Walking Dead_ is a giant creep.”  
  
“Oh, that’s just a patented fact now. I think everyone agrees the sign thing is creepy. Total dick move.”  
  
“Right? What was Keira Knightley supposed to do? Leave her husband? That was whatshisface’s best friend.”  
  
“Did he have a name in the movie?”  
  
“You’re the _Love Actually_ expert,” Emma says, and they’re not so much dancing anymore as they are just swaying in each other space. Like they’re settling into each other’s orbit.

She does not know enough about space to make these kinds of metaphors.

“Not an expert,” Killian argues. “I’ve got passable knowledge of _Love Actually_.”  
  
“The best storyline may actually be the guy from _Pirates of the Caribbean_.”  
  
“Who?”  
  
“The clown dad.”  
  
“You’re just saying words now.”  
  
Emma shakes her head, and she’s having far more fun than she expected. Maybe they would have had a good, fake date. The thought leaves her slightly and inexplicably disappointed. “His kid was the clown in _IT._ ”

“No, no, that was the other guy in _Pirates of the Caribbean._ I think.”

“You’re not sure?”

“No, and clowns freak me out.”  
  
“What, really?”  
  
“Completely and totally,” Killian nods. They’re making an announcement – something about cake and more dessert options and maybe something about more alcohol. Emma latches onto the last one, needing some kind of excuse for whatever her whole body is doing.

“You want to get a drink?”

He squeezes her hand again. And keeps his left arm at his side. “Yeah, ok.”

They don’t get drunk, but it’s pretty damn close – Ariel joining eventually, a high-pitched _where the hell have you been_ on her lips that disappears as soon as Killian slides a peppermint monstrosity towards her. They try that too, grousing and groaning and Ariel takes pictures, promises to send them to Emma, but the words get a little slurred and Killian’s hand settles on the small of Emma’s back.

To keep her from falling off the bar stool.

Or so she tells herself forty-seven times.

At least.

The Beach Boys play several more times, more samplings from _Pet Sounds_ and Emma groans when she hears the first few notes of _Run, Run Rudolph_. Killian practically beams.

“Holiday wedding,” he mouths at her, earning another eye roll that only ends with more smiles and more laughter and Emma pointedly ignoring the questioning glances of everyone who is absolutely staring at them.

He does, eventually, have to leave, although he seems frustrated by that, brows pulled low and eyes narrowed, like he’s trying to glare Ariel to death for suggesting it.

“And I’m not walking back to the hotel, you giant cheapskate,” she announces before turning on her heels and waving towards Belle and Ruby. They’re kissing. That’s been a theme for the entire night.

Emma wobbles on her seat as soon as Killian moves, teeth back on her lip and nerves in her stomach and--

“Here,” he says, holding his hand out again and she stares at it like she’s never seen anything resembling a human male before. “Your phone, Swan.”  
  
It takes some finagling, but they get her phone out of the bag she’d actually left at the bar before and he types, what she assumes, is his number, a smile on his face when he drops the stupid piece of technology back on her lap.

“Just in case you need to express more opinions about Christmas-themed...anything.”  
  
Emma smiles. “Sure.”  
  
She doesn’t notice Mary Margaret and David staring at her. She’s far too busy watching Killian leave.

And a week goes by and then two more days and she’s supposed to be going back to Storybrooke in three days and it’s snowing and Emma’s staring at an open suitcase wondering if she can actually show up without a pie because she just got off the phone with Granny who informed her, in no uncertain terms, that she absolutely cannot show up without a pie.

Or a guy.

She didn’t actually say that last part.

But it was implied.

It only takes five minutes to find the bottle of half-finished wine in the back of her fridge, the taste of it almost bitter on the back of Emma’s tongue, but that may also just be her. It takes less than thirty seconds for her to grab her phone again.

Her fingers fly over the keys, a mix of alcohol and adrenaline and some other word that starts with ‘a’ and may just be annoyance.

**What are you doing for Christmas?**

Emma bobs on the balls of her feet, waiting for an answer and ignoring whatever her pulse is doing as she waits for an answer and it takes him, exactly, thirty-six seconds to answer.

_Swan?_

**Oh, shit, I didn’t even think about telling you who this was.**

_I’m assuming it’s you then._

**Yeah, yeah, me.**

_With Christmas questions._

**You did say I could ask.**

_About movies._

**And?**

_And I think Rudolph is fundamentally better than Frosty the Snowman._

**Everyone thinks that.**

_I don’t know about that. Why are you asking me about Christmas?_

Emma takes another deep breath, feet staying firmly planted on the floor if only to try and ground herself because this may be the single most ridiculous thing she’s ever done.

**I’ve had an idea.**

_What did you have in mind?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hi, hey there internet. As promised, I am here with all the Christmas fic and Christmas feelings and Christmas flirting. They flirt a lot. And make pop culture references. I'm super psyched about this one and I hope you enjoy it. Tuesday and Friday updating from here on out because I also love schedules. 
> 
> Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down.


	2. Chapter 2

“Swan, you’ve got to tell me what we’re doing here.”  
  
“Getting pie.”  
  
“See, that seems like a joke.”  
  
Emma sighs, but he’s grinning at her when she glances over her shoulder and, really, he deserves an explanation. She’s fairly positive that’s what the question was actually about. She can’t imagine Killian is as worried about the pie as she is.

She isn’t really worried about the pie.

“Ok,” Emma says, ducking into one of the questionably lit corners of the store they’re only kind of hiding in and they’re already behind schedule. That’s probably not a sign of problems to come. Killian is still grinning at her. “You know the jist of it. You did agree to come up here.”

The last few words come out far more accusatory than Emma would like and for half a second Killian’s smile wavers, a hint of something that looks like a shadow and feels a bit like trepidation and she still can’t quite wrap her mind around how they’ve ended up there – in Aurora’s gift shop on the edge of the town line, desperately trying to find a pie because Emma Swan has come home for Christmas and she’s brought Killian Jones with her.

It’s easily the most ridiculous thing she’s ever done.

And once, when she was fourteen, she, Ruby and Mary Margaret tried to captain their own ship out into the harbor, certain they’d be able to get to one of the tiny islands to find some kind of buried treasure.

But Emma had texted Killian a few days earlier and there’d been some vaguely disgusting wine involved and possibly a bit of not-so-secret flirting and he’d actually called her after she’d asked him to come home with her.

The last thing she expected him to do was agree.

“I did,” Killian nods, stepping into Emma’s space and she hopes he doesn’t hear the way her breath hitches immediately. “But I’ll admit I’m still a little hazy on the details of this plan.”  
  
“We’re...faking it.”  
  
His eyebrows twist and the edges of his lips quirk up, the press of his tongue on the inside of his cheek obvious. And distracting. Emma sighs again. “Ok, ok,” she mumbles. “That’s not entirely what I meant. Mary Margaret and David think we went on that date, right?”

“But we didn’t.”  
  
“They don’t know that.” There is no way Killian’s eyebrows obey the laws of physics. Emma clicks her teeth until her jaw aches, trying to pull herself further into the wall when she hears the bell above the door ding. “So,” she continues. “They think we’re some couple that just didn’t pan out and then we reconnected or something at Belle and Ruby’s wedding.”  
  
“And now we’re painfully and totally in love.”  
  
“I don’t know that I’d go that far,” Emma mumbles, but her heart gives a little lurch at those particular words in that particular order and she’s running out of corner to slink into. That’s probably not a sign either.

“So we’re fake exes that are now fake dating?”  
  
“If you were confused by the plan you should have asked questions before you told me to pick you up.”

“Less confused and more determined to play my role correctly.”  
  
Emma’s heart stops. It feels that way – as if it turned to lead and fell into the pit of her stomach and, possibly, directly through the floor. That will probably make it harder to stay hiding in the corner. Killian seems to notice the shift in her or the very obvious tension in the air between them and his fingers are warm when they curl around Emma’s elbow, tugging her arm away from her side. “Go over the schedule one more time, love.”

She doesn’t quite exhale, but it’s a very close thing – some of her nerves evaporating because the whole thing really does make sense. It’s ridiculous, but it’s...well, it’s ridiculous.

And it’s hard to stay focused when Killian keeps looking at her like that.

“Well, we’re here,” Emma starts, waving her free hand around her. “We go home, drop our stuff off, maybe go see Mary Margaret and David so we’re not entirely caught off guard by them and--”

“--You think we’re going to be caught off guard by your two best friends?”  
  
“God, don’t tell Ruby you called them that.” Killian doesn’t answer, or acknowledge Emma’s rather pitiful joke, just levels her with a stare that makes her toes curl in her boots and she can feel the blush rising on her cheeks. “I may or may not have mentioned you. As a person.”  
  
“A person?”  
  
“A person coming home with me.”  
  
He tilts his head, eyes wide and expression twisted between incredulous and what might actually be disappointed. Like he wanted people to know he was coming home with her. As a favor. She’d called it a favor on the phone.

And he hadn’t argued.

“Did you think I was going to flake on you, Swan?” Killian asks, thumb tapping lightly on her jacket sleeve.

“No, no, no, well, no.”  
  
“Sounded convincing.”  
  
The blush on her cheeks is an inferno. This is the worst idea she’s ever had. The bell on the door dings again.

“It is,” Emma promises, twisting slightly so she can move her hands and Killian’s expression doesn’t change when she tugs on the front of his coat. “It’s...this is...you’re helping me, right?” He nods slowly, and it’s difficult to keep speaking when she’s trying to bite her own lip in half, but Emma is only doing this so the entire population of Storybrooke will back off and maybe because she doesn’t want to be the only one alone and maybe, possibly because she wanted to text Killian – even before the wine.

“It’s a favor,” Emma says. “And I appreciate it and I don’t know how to thank you, but it’s...it’s like a gift receipt.”  
  
Killian makes a noise that cannot be good for the state of his throat. “Excuse me?”  
  
“A gift receipt. Mary Margaret and David already think we had a horrible date once. So when they see you’re here, they’re going to think we just...hooked up at the wedding or something--”  
  
“--That’s not what happened.”  
  
“They don’t know that,” Emma says, enunciating every letter and refusing to linger too much on the disappointment that that _didn’t_ happen. That’s not part of the plan. “Also, stop interrupting me.” Killian salutes, half a smirk tugging at one side of his mouth. “Trust me, Mary Margaret is going to swoon at the romance of it all,” Emma promises. “And everyone here will leave me alone for two point four seconds and then, when we inevitably break up, like three days into the new year, no one will be surprised.”  
  
“They won’t?”  
  
Emma shakes her head. “No, because Mary Margaret and David think we’ve already broken up once. They’ll applaud my effort at trying, but then guarantee it wasn’t worth my time and no one will ever mention bringing home a significant other ever again.”  
  
Killian stares at her – far too appraising to be entirely comforting, but that may also be the shelf that’s sticking into her left kidney. His tongue flashes between his lips before he tugs on the lower one, another impossible twist of eyebrows that makes Emma’s pulse race and her heart, wherever it may be, thud erratically.

This is going to be fine.

The plan is ridiculous, but it makes total sense.

They just need to get a goddamn pie and they’ll be set.

“Explain the gift receipt part,” he mutters, and she swears his eyes get bluer or possibly more determined. Like he’s trying to read her mind. It’s not altogether uncomfortable.

“Oh,” Emma breathes. “Um. Well, you know, you get a gift receipt and then it’s totally cool when you want to return it? Like no problems and you never know how much it actually cost? It’s..we’re kind of like that, right? No harm, no foul. Three days after New Year’s and that’s that.”  
  
“That’s that?”  
  
Emma hums. Her heart does something stupid again. It’s impressive considering it may or may not still be in the ground – free falling. “That’s that,” she echoes, but it comes out like a whisper and a distinct lack of certainty and there’s something that feels a hell of a lot like several dozen emotions stuck in the middle of her throat.

And she’s just about to question the look on Killian’s face and why he agreed to this, but she can hear the footsteps and she knows they’ve been caught.

Relatively speaking.

They haven’t really done anything wrong.

Relatively speaking.

“Emma Swan?”  
  
“Hey, Aurora,” Emma smiles, doing her best to make it seem sincere and slightly festive. She has to lean around Killian to do it though, still stuck in her space with his absurdly warm fingers wrapped around her. He tugs her to his side when he realizes what’s going on and good – that’s good. That’s definitely part of the role.

God, that sounds horrible.

“Merry Christmas,” Aurora says. Her smile doesn’t need any coaxing, it’s real and honest and Emma already feels like an asshole. “How are you?”  
  
“Good. How...how are you? And congratulations?”  
  
It’s an absurd question, the swell of Aurora’s stomach obvious even under the bright pattern of the Christmas sweater she’s wearing. Her smile gets brighter. “Fantastic,” she says. “Phillip is, you know, over the moon and Granny’s been trying to teach me how to actually can things so we can save some money and it’s…” Aurora shrugs, positivity practically radiating off her. Emma doesn’t mean to lean into Killian’s side. She’ll tell herself that for, like, at least the next four hours. “It’s the best Christmas ever.”  
  
Emma nods, quick and jerky. That thing in her throat is back.

“And this is?” Aurora prompts, nodding towards Killian. “Should I also be saying congratulations?”

Emma nearly swallows her tongue. Killian chuckles, squeezing her shoulder before taking a step away from her and offering Aurora his hand. “Killian Jones,” he says, all calm and confident. It’s a good look. They’re all good looks, even the slightly behind schedule one Emma saw when she picked him up in Boston that morning because the least she could do was pick him, but this one, _happy to be here boyfriend_ , is a particularly good one.

It’s also a fake one.

She ignores that.

She’s really got to come up with a character worse than Ebenezer Scrooge.

“And you’re here with Emma?” Aurora presses, still shaking Killian’s hand. It’s as if all the oxygen has been forcibly yanked out of the atmosphere. Emma digs her teeth into her lip, eyes bulging and pulse racing and Killian’s gaze flicker towards hers.

He nods. “Yeah.”  
  
Aurora looks stunned. And overjoyed. And mostly stunned. “Oh my gosh,” she mutters, which is not really the best response. It’s far too telling. “Really?”  
  
“Yeah,” Killian repeats, but that time it’s a little harsher and he pulls his hand back to his side. Emma stays still.

“Right, right, ok, well that’s...that’s wonderful,” Aurora says. “What are you doing here though? Did you forget the pie?”  
  
Emma winces. “I didn’t forget. I didn’t have time. You know, to bake a pie.”  
  
“You never bake your pie.”  
  
There’s suddenly far too much oxygen in that store. And Emma feels as if it’s her civic duty to sigh out as much of it as possible. Killian shifts slightly, gaze darting between Aurora and Emma before finally settling on Emma and it feels like _something_ when his fingers graze over the back of her wrist.

“The pie thing really wasn’t a joke?” he asks.

“Oh, no, no,” Aurora says quickly, as if even the suggestion is offensive to everyone within the town lines. It totally is. “That’s almost as important as the tree lighting.”  
  
“It’s not as important as the tree lighting,” Emma corrects. Killian looks incredibly confused. That’s fair. Emma should buy him several thousand gifts. And really figure out why he agreed to any of this. “I wasn’t kidding about the schedule either,” she explains. “The pie potluck is the last thing that happens before we all get to open our first present.”

“That’s suggesting karaoke isn’t a present,” Aurora laughs.  
  
“There’s karaoke?”  
  
Emma nods. “Yuh huh. And pie. On Christmas Eve. Which everyone makes because this is that kind of town, except--”  
  
“--Emma usually buys her pie and brings it with her,” Aurora finishes. The words sound a little bit like gloating though and Emma leans against Killian again. This is going great. “She hasn’t been here to buy it since she was in college.”  
  
“I didn’t have time when I was home,” Emma mumbles. She regrets the use of _that_ particular word immediately, Aurora’s face stunned and Killian’s expression unreadable. He wraps his fingers around Emma’s though, so maybe it’s alright. “So, uh...if you could not mention this to Granny when you see her later, Aurora, that’d be fantastic. I’ll pay you for extra for the pie.”  
  
“We don’t have that many left.”  
  
“Yuh huh.”  
  
“I’d feel wrong making you pay extra for the pie, anyway.”  
  
“That’s charitable of you.”

“We honestly only have key lime left.”  
  
“What?” Emma balks, and Killian does an admirable job of trying to stop himself from laughing. He presses his head against her hair. “That’s not even festive.”  
  
Aurora crosses her arms over her stomach, rocking back on her heels. “It’s the day before Christmas Eve, Emma. I’m not sure what you were expecting.”  
  
Reasonably, Emma knows she’s not being lectured and the sentence isn’t some kind of condemnation of every single one of her life choices, but she's not sure what she’s going to do if she doesn’t bring a pie to the metaphorical table and she might not be considering pie in the metaphorical sense either. She sighs, head lolling back - directly onto Killian’s shoulder.

“We’ll figure it out, Swan,” he says, a sudden promise that leaves Aurora blinking like an owl. Emma’s heart flies back into her chest.

She turns slowly, not daring to move faster for fear that she’ll teeter off the edge she’s only just keeping her balance on. That’s another metaphor. “Yeah?” Emma asks.

“Yeah. Key lime is not festive at all. It’s offensive to the festivities.”

It’s difficult to hear Aurora’s indignant response over the sound of her own laughter, smile stretching across her face and Killian’s eyes absolutely get brighter. “C’mon, love,” he mutters, moving her back towards the door and the bell and they barely wave to Aurora before walking back onto the sidewalk.

They don’t say anything once they get back in the car, chilly already after their rather unproductive pie quest. Emma’s eyes keep darting towards Killian, not entirely sure what to say or how to explain the nature of Storybrooke at Christmas before they both have to deal with Storybrooke at Christmas, but there’s not really much to Storybrooke and they’re already driving up Main Street when he snaps his head her direction.

She nearly drives them off the road.

That will only add to the inevitable gossip.

Aurora has probably texted half the town already.

“Why didn’t you get pie before?” he asks, Emma jerking the gear shift as she tries to park like a normal human being.

“I didn’t have time.”  
  
“What’s the real answer?”  
  
“Wow, rude.”  
  
“Eh, do we not like Aurora? Was that what was happening there?”

Emma clicks her tongue. “I don’t actively dislike Aurora. I’d rather I didn’t have to go into her store because I know she’ll spend the rest of the night telling anyone who will listen about the way you insulted her key lime pie--”  
  
“--Wait, wait,” Killian interrupts, and he’s leaning towards her like there are magnets or just a general sense of flirting and possible want lingering between them. “That wasn’t just me!”  
  
“You told her key lime pie was offensive to the festivities. Literally, that happened two minutes ago. You can’t deny that.”

The tips of his ears go red. Emma may be counting the number of times she can make that happens. It feels like opening her first present on Christmas. “Yeah, well,” Killian grumbles. “She was getting pretty uppity about her pie.”  
  
“That’s kind of how Aurora operates. She gets it from her mom. Used to lord it over me all the time that I’d have to come in and buy pie when I came home from school.”  
  
“How come you never made the pie yourself? Didn’t...I mean Ruby talks about her grandmother’s diner all the time, I’d imagine she knows how to make pie.”  
  
Emma nods, another awkward movement that reverberates down her spine. They need to get out of her car. “Yeah, yeah, she does and she’d probably be more than happy to teach me, but I’m...kind of, you know, bitter.”  
  
“Bitter?”  
  
“Not quite festive.”

Killian narrows his eyes, ignoring the gear shift completely to rest his hand on Emma’s knee. Magnets. _Fake. Fake. Fake._ “Why didn’t you have time to buy pie in the city this year?”  
  
“Got called into work last night. Unexpected and off the schedule because I really didn’t want to be chasing down some skip when I had to drive up here today, but I’d been looking for this guy for weeks and my boss knew I wanted to be the one to get him and--”  
  
“--Wait, wait,” Killian says, flashing a grin when Emma groans at the interruption. “You’re bail bonds? And you were working all last night?”  
  
“Not all last night. I’m very good at my job.”  
  
“Do Mary Margaret and David know that?”  
  
Emma’s not entirely prepared for the concern in his voice, the way his fingers grip her a little tighter, like he’s worried she’s been secretly injured the entire time they’ve been in the car. “It was kind of a quick thing,” she explains. “It’s not a big deal. That’s--”  
  
“--Dangerous, isn’t it? By its very nature.”  
  
“I mean, I guess. But it’s also good money and it’ll probably help pay for the pie, so…”

Killian barks out a laugh, head falling forward far enough that his hair threatens to work its way into his eyes. Emma resists the urge to run her fingers through it. “I can’t imagine what kind of pie you’re thinking about buying, Swan.”  
  
“A super fancy one that’ll impress everybody.”  
  
“And that’s what you’re trying to do? Impress everybody?”  
  
“Isn’t everyone trying to impress their family during the holidays?”

He lifts his head, another far-too-knowing expression. “I guess so,” he admits. “Is the tree lighting before or after the karaoke?”  
  
“After.”  
  
“Naturally.”

Emma laughs, not as nervous as she’d been on the drive from the city to Boston, but still a little wary and that probably has to do with the state of Killian’s hand and how consistently warm it is. They need to get out of her car. It’s messing with her head.

“You want to see downtown Storybrooke in all of its holiday glory?” Emma asks, and Killian nods before she’s even finished the question.

“I’d like nothing better.”  
  
It doesn’t sound like the lie Emma assumes it should be.

He doesn’t let her carry her own bag, which is, it’s absurd, really, but it’s also kind of nice and the skip the night before had been, relatively, easy, but she’d also slid on a patch of ice on Broome Street and there’s definitely a bruise on her left shoulder where she slammed into the side of a building.

“This is unnecessary chivalry,” Emma mutters, but he grins at her again and anymore arguments die on the tip of her tongue.

“It’s nice, Swan. Festive, even.”  
  
“I really don’t think either one of us knows the meaning of that word.”  
  
“Ah, that’s entirely possible. But I’m hanging onto nice.”

She keeps laughing. He keeps making her laugh. This may be an ok few days. That sounds more like a lie than anything else.

It’s already better than ok. But it’s also difficult to find the right words when Killian keeps bumping against her side with her own luggage.

“You are not helping your own cause here,” Emma laughs. “Nice doesn’t attack like that.”

“You wound me, Swan. This is not an attack.”  
  
“No?”  
  
“No,” Killian says, and it sounds like a promise. She hopes it’s a promise. She hopes her car wasn’t secreting carbon monoxide or something. That’s the only reason Emma can come up with the distinct amount of hope coursing through her system. “And while we might not be entirely festive, I think it’s safe to say that this entire town is that and then some.”

Emma scrunches her nose when he stops in the middle of the sidewalk, glancing around meaningfully like he’s taking stock of the absurd number of decorations – there’s garland wrapped around every lamp post and lights in every storefront window, a bell on each door and while there isn’t any snow yet, it’s probably only a matter of time.

Snow just happens in Storybrooke on Christmas. Like magic, festive magic.

“There’s a decorating committee,” Emma says, and she’s a jerk because she does it mostly to see what Killian’s eyebrows do in response. She’s not disappointed. They leap and jump and continue to defy the laws of gravity, a rhythm to them that probably matches up with her pulse or something else ridiculous.

“No, there’s not.”  
  
“I promise there is. It’s considered a very high honor to be elected.”  
  
“There’s an election?!”  
  
“We’re a democratic system here,” Emma grins. They’re standing in the middle of the sidewalk. It’s probably only a matter of time before several noses are pressed to several windows nearby – they’re only a few feet away from Doc’s hardware store, after all. That entire door is covered in plastic holly.

Killian hums, tongue back in the corner of his mouth. “That is...incredible. It’s like being in the middle of a Bing Crosby movie.”  
  
“That was Vermont.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“ _White Christmas_?” Emma asks, and Killian hitches her bag further up his shoulder. “That was Vermont. The inn they went to and everything. Plus, it didn’t snow there.”  
  
“What does that have to do with anything?”  
  
“The name of the movie is _White Christmas_? Do you not think snow played a major role in the plot of that? Also, they sang a song about it.”  
  
“Called Snow, actually,” Killian says, and he’s far too busy holding her luggage to stop her hand from swatting at his chest. He keeps smiling though.

“Why do you know that?”  
  
“I’m fairly positive I know everything.”  
  
“Wow, super confident about it too.”

He shrugs. “An acceptable amount of confidence. Why do you know so much about _White Christmas_? Also, did you know that’s not the first time that song was sung on film? That was--”  
  
“-- _Holiday Inn_ ,” Emma says. “Get on my Christmas movie level.”

“That’s right.”  
  
“I know it is.”  
  
“Huh.”  
  
There’s something on the edge of his voice, a hint of what might actually be wonder and it does a handful of decidedly impossible things to Emma’s entire being and certainty that she knows the meaning of the word festive and for half a moment she allows herself to imagine that maybe he just wanted to be there with her and there wasn’t something else to it, no secrets or double meanings or anything except a few well-placed Christmas miracles.

“And,” Emma adds. “Mary Margaret wanted to be Vera Ellen when we were kids. Her mom had loved all those old movies and Vera Ella was all class and glamour and really nice hair. She was a big fan of _On the Town_ too. That’s not a Christmas movie, but, you know...she took ballet?”  
  
“Really?” Emma nods. She hears someone bump up against the window behind her. It was only a matter of time. “And what about you, Swan? Did you ever take dance lessons?”  
  
She has to swallow before she answers, lips dry from breathing out of her mouth and Emma hopes her answer doesn’t sound too depressing. She’d hate to ruin the moment. It feels like a moment. “No,” she whispers. “I was too old by the time I got here. Not much of a chance before that, really.”  
  
Killian takes another step towards her, close enough that their shoes nearly touch and her bag bumps against her hip again and it’s _something_ and possibly frozen and Emma doesn’t breath when he tilts his head. She’s seventy-six percent positive he’s going to kiss her.

So, naturally, someone calls her name.

“Em, Em, Em, Em, Em,” Elsa chants, sprinting towards them and they’re suddenly a mess of limbs and shouts and hugs that threaten to do damage to several different internal organs.

Killian’s jaw is dangerously close to the sidewalk.

They linger in each other’s space for a few more minutes, Emma burying her head against Elsa’s shoulder, like she’s trying to remind herself of something good and _real_ , but then she’s being pushed back and she should have been more prepared for that particular look.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Elsa demands, gaze flashing towards a still-stunned looking Killian.

“How did you even find out?” Emma counters.

“Please, Aurora basically sent out carrier pigeons and telepathic updates. But I found from Anna.”  
  
“She’s here already?”  
  
“Yeah, with the guy and his distinct hatred of apples.”  
  
“He really hates apples?” Emma asks, and Elsa makes a face that in any other situation would be entirely absurd. It’s only a little absurd in their current situation. “God, does Regina know that yet?”

Elsa shakes her head. “We’re trying to keep that secret for as long as possible. We don’t need Her Majesty to kick the poor kid out before he even gets a chance to profess his undying love and devotion to my sister.”  
  
“You think that’ll happen?”  
  
“You think Mary Margaret and David will get engaged before you guys go back to the city?”  
  
“Aw, did Ruby tell you?” Emma groans, Elsa laughing and nodding and the face in the nearest window is fogging up the glass. Killian is still holding all their bags.

“She’s very certain the tree lighting is the place to be tonight and wants updates.”  
  
“She’s on her honeymoon!”  
  
“Well she said you two bet fifty bucks on this, which, you know, that’s a little wrong and I’m a little annoyed you didn’t ask if I wanted in, but then again we’re all in the habit of keeping secrets now, aren’t we?” Her eyes move back towards Killian, and Emma doesn’t try to suppress whatever noise flies out of her.

“That was not even remotely subtle.”  
  
“I wasn’t trying to be,” Elsa says, moving around Emma and extending her hand towards Killian. He takes it. “Aurora said you are, and keep in mind this is coming through an Anna filter, stupid good looking.”  
  
“Oh my God,” Emma mumbles. Killian’s ears appear to have caught fire.

“Stupid,” he repeats slowly. Elsa looks like she’s only barely keeping a handle on her laugh. “Is that a compliment?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Elsa and Killian both stare at Emma when she all but shouts the word at them. She’s disappointed the sidewalk doesn’t open up and eat her. Then she wouldn’t have to be worried about the pie thing.

She could not be less worried about the pie thing.

“Right,” Elsa says slowly. “Well, Emma didn’t tell anyone she was bringing you home and--”  
  
“--It was kind of a sudden decision,” Killian cuts in. Emma’s knees wobble. “I’ve got some time off and...you know, it made sense.”  
  
“What do you do?”  
  
“El,” Emma chastises, but she’s also kind of curious and Killian started it. So, really, she’s got the mindset and moral compass of a five-year-old.

“I’m a writer,” Killian says. “Non-fiction, mainly. Finding interesting subjects who, otherwise, get mostly overlooked by the history books. I just finished my last manuscript, sent to my agent, who I am certain will hate it and then I’ll tell him why he’s an idiot for every opinion he’s ever had.”

Emma laughs before she can consider any reason not to, and Killian moves back towards her side. “Anyway,” he continues. “I’ve got a few weeks before the scathing opinions start raining down and here I am.”  
  
“Here you are,” Elsa repeats. Emma widens her eyes at the tone of her voice, but she’s known Elsa _forever_ and a day and this is not the first inquisition they will likely face. And she can practically hear the gears working in Elsa’s head because Emma’s never brought anyone home and as far as anyone at home is concerned, that’s got to mean something.

She wishes Killian had let her carry her own luggage.

It’d be easier to keep some perspective that way.

“Mary Margaret and David got here a couple hours ago,” Elsa says, an abrupt subject change that feels as sharp as the wind inevitably whipping off the harbor on the other side of town. “They’re already talking about tonight.”  
  
Emma hopes it starts snowing soon so it will bury her under several drifts.

“Tonight?” Killian asks, Elsa answering squawk just that.

“Oh, Em, you’re just keeping secrets from everyone, aren’t you?” Emma glares at her, but it probably has something to do with that extra day after _forever_ and Elsa looks far too entertained. She’s totally going to text Mary Margaret about this. “Trust me,” she tells Killian. “You are not going to want to miss this. You may be able to write another book about it.”

“Alright,” Emma snaps. Elsa’s still laughing. “Well, this has been super fun, but I’m worried Doc is going to suffocate himself against his own window if we don’t move and I’d rather Granny didn’t send out the search party if we don’t get home soon.”  
  
“That’s far. You know, we thought she kept a crossbow in her basement when we were kids.”  
  
“What?” Killian balks, Emma already shoving him further down the sidewalk and Elsa’s _guffaw_ echoing in the air around them.

“C’mon, c’mon,” she mumbles.

They lapse into more silence, a frustrating habit that Emma knows she doesn’t have any right to be frustrated over, but she’s curious and very stubborn and--”  
  
“What’s the new book about?”  
  
Killian stops suddenly, foot hovering over the top step leading to the diner. His eyebrows have practically disappeared into his hairline. “What?”  
  
“Did you really finish a new book or was that just conjecture?”  
  
“Why would I lie about that?”

Emma shrugs. She wishes all these questions stopped feeling so big and important. “So what’s it about? Or is that, like, against your contract to say?”  
  
“I’m willing to walk on the wild side for the next few days. I wrote about Captain Kidd.”  
  
“That sounds fake.”  
  
“If it is, then I’m totally screwed.”

Emma’s laugh is far too loud – certain to attract another crowd, or at the very least, a put-upon diner owner who is very likely annoyed by how late they absolutely are. She doesn’t care. She’s impossibly charmed by it. Stupid charmed, even.

“What did he do?”

“He was a pirate,” Killian says. “Got arrested in Boston.”  
  
“Where did he bury his treasure?”

“That’s a stereotype.”

“Are you offended on behalf of the pirates?” Emma asks, and it feels like flirting again. Weird flirting, but definitely flirting. Killian shakes his head.

“Not particularly, but Kidd is interesting. Not a lot written about him, actually, even though he was pretty accomplished as far as pirating went. Even got married. Spent a lot of time on Long Island, actually, a little into Brooklyn.”  
  
“Can pirates get married?”  
  
“If they want to. Possibly if they fall in love.”  
  
“Possibly?”  
  
Killian hums. “I’d imagine William Kidd also considered his wife’s inheritance.”  
  
Emma has to look around to make sure she hasn’t actually fallen in the snow she’d been so desperate for a moment before. It’s ridiculous, the _whatever_ that seems to slink down her spine and settle in the arches of her feet, cold and disappointed and--

“So, you really are a giant nerd, huh?”  
  
“I never made any claim otherwise,” Killian chuckles. “I wanted to do some more on his time in New York too, but--”

Emma’s going to scream if they keep getting interrupted. They will probably keep getting interrupted throughout the next three days. And Granny is already telling them to _get in from the cold_ and something about _catching your death_ and the diner smells like chocolate and cinnamon as soon as they step inside.

There are more hugs after that, bags dropped on the floor and Killian’s eyes impossibly wide when Granny yanks him against her. Emma rolls her eyes towards the ceiling.

“You could have let us know, Emma,” Granny scolds. “I had to find out from Leo Blanchard.”  
  
Emma winces. “Mr. Blanchard already knows?”  
  
“Everyone already knows, sweetheart. I’m surprised Aurora hasn’t tried to buy out a billboard already. Ruby’s going to be very disappointed she missed this.”  
  
“She’s busy,” Emma mumbles, but her muscles tense anyway and she should have been better prepared for the explosion of feeling at the idea that she brought someone home. Killian keeps rocking back and forth on his feet.

“Ah, don’t remind me. It won’t be the same not having her and Belle here.” Granny exhales softly, a hint of emotion lingering on the edge of her and Emma feels a rush of guilt that mixes with her inexplicable disappointment. “But it’s a nice surprise to see this happening,” Granny continues, waving both her hands in Killian’s direction. “You were with Emma at the wedding as well, right?”  
  
Emma’s ready for it – opening her mouth to contradict and maybe just announce that the whole thing is an incredibly convoluted plan with metaphors about receipts and return policies and that second part might have only been in her head – but then Killian’s shaking his head and slinging an arm around her shoulders again.

“I wasn’t expecting that to happen, really,” he says, a picture of honesty that makes Emma’s eyebrows pull low. “But it just sort of...happened.”  
  
“You’d been staring quite a bit.”  
  
“Granny,” Emma exclaims, but she’s immediately brushed off by the two other people in that conversation.

Killian’s ears are a normal, human color.

“True,” he admits. “Ruby did a good job of picking out bridesmaids dresses.”

Granny throws her whole head back when she laughs, the sound echoing off the empty diner walls and in between Emma’s ears. It’s the nicest thing she’s ever heard, a quiet happiness to it that fits the theme and the day and she doesn’t think she imagines the way Killian’s arm tightens around her.

She doesn’t think she imagined the way he might have been worried about her. And her job.

And mostly her.

Coveting that is probably very anti-Christmas.

“That she did,” Granny nods. “Make sure you tell her that when you see her next. She was worried. She didn’t want Emma to be uncomfortable.”  
  
That catches her by surprise, eyes threatening to fall out of her head. “Wait, what?”

“Didn’t know that did you?”  
  
Emma doesn’t really move – she tries to, but she’s a little stunned and a little overwhelmed and Killian’s fingers are tracing patterns on her arm again. He keeps doing that.

_Part of the plan. Fake. Festive._

That last one doesn’t make sense at all.

“Here,” Granny adds, pushing a key into Emma’s ribcage. “Figured you wouldn't want to stay in your childhood bedroom.”

Emma is going to die. Right there. In the middle of the diner. Because the key is a key to one of the B&B rooms and those have always been decidedly off-limits and Ruby is going to _kill_ her because she’d never been allowed to bring Belle there.

They definitely broke into one once, but Granny never gave them a key.

Emma swallows. “Thanks.”  
  
“Good girl,” Granny mutters, not the reprimand it sounds like. “Are you excited for tonight, Killian?”

“How’d you know his name?” Emma shouts. Granny ignores her.

“I’d imagine it had something to do with Aurora’s billboards, love,” he mutters, and Granny can’t possibly ignore that. Emma’s pulse doesn’t either. “And I’m very intrigued by whatever is happening tonight.”  
  
Granny’s answering smile is almost wolf-like. “We get to celebrating.”

They do, eventually, get out of the middle of the diner, Emma’s fingers shaking slightly when she unlocks the door to the B&B room and everything is themed like the ocean and smells even more like cinnamon and Granny has probably been baking all week.

And they head back outside, Mary Margaret’s texts growing increasingly dramatic the longer Emma continues to ignore them until Killian tugs her phone out of her hand and grins at her, a look she’s starting to covet as well, telling her, _it’ll be fine, love_ and she believes him.

She hopes.

Still.

In something decidedly Christmas.

They ignore the wind chill completely and get ice cream from Any Given Sundae, Elsa’s aunt smiling at all four of them over the counter like she’d been waiting for them to plow into the store. And there are more introductions – Doc finally leaving his window and Leroy announcing he’d fight Killian if he dared step a toe out of line and Roland Locksley nearly knocks Emma over when he sprints down the sidewalk towards her – and by the time they get back to Granny’s for dinner and the inevitable karaoke, Emma is only a little smug that her boyfriend looks far less overwhelmed than Kristoff.

Killian isn’t actually her boyfriend.

She has to keep reminding herself of that.

He keeps brushing his fingers over the back of her wrist.

“So,” Killian says slowly, standing next to Emma while she spins on one of the counter stools. “Is anyone actually going to tell me what I’m supposed to be so excited about tonight?”

Emma stops spinning. Mary Margaret’s lips make an audible _pop_ when they open. David has to use Elsa as support when his laugh threatens to knock him over.

“No one told you?” he asks. “Emma didn’t tell you?”  
  
“Should she have?”  
  
“She’s probably embarrassed,” Elsa reasons. “Think about Anna, Em. She’s going to be way worse off than you.”  
  
“I heard that,” Anna calls from the other side of the restaurant. “And mine’s not choreographed!”

Emma wonders how many times one person can mumble _oh my God_ under their breath before it really starts to become ridiculous. She assumes she must be dangerously close. “It doesn’t matter because I’m not doing it.”

There’s a chorus of _what_ and _you have to_ and Killian’s head tilt is becoming increasingly difficult to deal with. “Does this have to do with karaoke?”  
  
“No wonder you’re such an accomplished author.”  
  
“It’s my investigative skills that make all the difference.”

Emma hums, crossing her arms and resuming her attempts to forget how ridiculous the entire day has been by spinning it away. She’d like some eggnog. “This is an absurd tradition. It has to end.”  
  
“It can’t end,” Mary Margaret argues. “We’ve been doing it for years.”

“And it’s your year, Em,” David reminds her, a fact she’d been doing her best forget all year.

Killian still looks confused. And Emma is just about to suggest that maybe she and Killian should take a walk – possibly to the harbor so she can either drown herself or forcibly make out with him, she hasn’t decided yet – but then there’s a bell ringing and Granny calling them to order and it’s too late.

“Damn,” Emma mumbles, David pulling her off the stool and she stumbles over her own feet. “Alright, alright, jeez, Nolan, you’re going to yank my arm out of its socket.”  
  
“This is tradition, Emma.”  
  
“So I’ve been told.” She exhales sharply, turning back towards an expectant Killian and Granny is already shouting instructions. “Alright,” Emma says. “So, uh, that karaoke thing? It’s now. And it’s serious. And there are judges.”  
  
“Judges?” Killian echoes.

“Judges,” Granny repeats. “And you’re going to help.”  
  
“Me?”  
  
“Yup. It’s usually Ruby, but she’s not here and we need a third. Ruth and I have decided you’re the best option.”  
  
“A glowing recommendation.”

Maybe Emma’s already died. Maybe she’s a ghost – watching a dream or a possibility and both of those are disappointing options, because Killian might be agreeing to judge karaoke and David and Mary Margaret are trying to tug on her shirt again. Emma assumes that wouldn’t be possible if she was a ghost.

She’s far too corporal.

“Ok, ok, ok,” Emma growls, shaking both of them off her while Killian is ushered behind a judges table and explained the rules because Storybrooke is the kind of place with both of those things at Christmas. “Listen, I will do this, but we’ve got to change the song.”  
  
It’s as if she suggested they walk to the moon.

David gapes and Mary Margaret pales slightly and even Elsa looks a little stunned.

“You want to change the song?” Elsa asks. “But...you picked the song.”  
  
“I was fourteen.”  
  
“It’s your year to sing.”  
  
“That’s a ridiculous tradition.”  
  
“So is all of this,” David says reasonably. “But it’s part of our charm.”  
  
Emma arches an eyebrow. It’s probably not as good as Killian. “Are we charming?”  
  
“I think there are some here who believe exactly that,” Mary Margaret mutters, and Elsa, somehow, gets more stunned. It’s impressive.

Emma is totally going to set a record for mumbled expletives and curses. She huffs, meeting Mary Margaret’s look – one that’s been there forever and _two_ days because that’s how long Mary Margaret has been around and been supportive and it is Emma’s year to sing lead.

It just all feels a little too on the nose.

“Fine,” she groans. The music has already started. “You guys better not suck at backup.”  
  
“It’s rude to suggest we’d ever been anything except entirely on beat,” David says. “You’re a star in the making, Emma Swan.”

And, really, the whole thing is as ridiculous as advertised.

It’s not actually karaoke, just singing along to the juke box, but they call it that anyway, and, for some reason, all four of them go first and, for some reason, all four of them have been singing _Silly Love Songs_ by Wings since they were fourteen. The some reason for the second one is entirely Emma’s fault.

But Mary Margaret came up with the choreography, steps she’d learned at those same classes her mom had sent her to and there’s synchronized movements and down-beat steps that they could all probably do in their sleep at this point and Emma’s eyes find Killian as soon as she spins – mouthing along to Paul McCartney and she almost falls over at the size of his grin.

Killian’s. Not Paul McCartney.

Paul McCartney isn’t there. Fourteen-year-old Emma would not have been able to cope with that.

“Because she had a crush on Paul McCartney,” David laughs, and the crowd had been less than receptive to Killian’s enthusiastic ten-out-of-ten score. Robin had shouted something about _collusion_ and Anna denounced _playing favorites_ , and Killian had agreed to give up his judging duties rather quickly.

He seems far more interested in Emma’s fourteen-year-old crushes anyway.

“And that led to Wings?” he asked. His arm is back around her, but now it’s wrapped around her waist and that somehow feels different and more important, particularly when it’s so easy for Emma to rest her head against his shoulder.

She’s fairly certain Elsa and Mary Margaret are communicating telepathically.

“It started as the Beatles,” Emma mumbles, but she might have stayed silent for all the good it’s doing her. David is far too in his element.

“She felt Paul had more of a chance to shine in Wings,” he explains. “And she thought his marriage to Linda was romantic.”  
  
“It was!”  
  
“Hasn’t he been married several times?” Killian asks, and Emma can feel his laugh against her.

“Only because Linda died. He wouldn’t have otherwise.”

“Merry Christmas,” Elsa mutters, a smile tugging at the ends of her mouth. “Although, you’re probably right. And, you know, your home life didn’t help.”  
  
Killian tenses slightly – Emma moving to rest her hand on his chest, like she’s trying to tell him to _stand down_ or something impossible because they’re not actually dating and this is not actually something and he doesn’t need to defend her. Or worry. Or...anything.

“Have you noticed a theme regarding the karaoke songs?” she asks.

“Should I have?”  
  
“Nothing after 1978. Because the jukebox in the corner does not have music any later than that.”

“One time Regina tried to suggest we do something from the ‘modern age,’ and we all thought Granny was going to send her home without any food,” Elsa whispers conspiratorially.

“She wouldn’t actually do that though,” Mary Margaret promises.

“Just get the crossbow, right?” Killian asks, and Emma can’t help but think about how impossibly large his hand is. It seems to fit perfectly on the jut of her hip. She doesn’t think about how he keeps his left arm trained against his side.

Mary Margaret beams. “Exactly. Anyway, Granny thrives on 70s music. She was personally offended by that Starboy a few years ago.”  
  
“Are you talking about David Bowie?”  
  
“Peter Quill,” Emma says. “Like _Guardians of the Galaxy_. She didn’t like that suddenly all her music was cool again. Said it shouldn’t have taken that movie to make people listen.”  
  
“It shouldn't have,” Granny promises, and Emma nearly jumps to attention. “Did you lot eat? Because you’re probably going to win again and we’re almost done with the set list.”  
  
“It’d be difficult for us not to eat.”  
  
Granny nods knowingly. “Remember to make sure you hit the right number, alright, David?”  
  
“Of course, Granny,” he says, sounding like he’s fourteen as well. Emma turns her head into Killian’s shoulder to try and muffler her laugh – he doesn’t tell her to stop. He tightens his hold on her.

“What happens with the numbers?” he whispers, mostly into her hair.

Emma doesn’t lift her head. “Wait and see.”

She doesn’t count the minutes until _it_ , but that’s kind of a lie – particularly when the eggnog starts to leave her a bit flushed and a bit giggly and that’s probably because of the rum in the eggnog and absolutely, positively, not because of Killian’s general proximity.

And David almost messes up, which may be _entirely_ because of the eggnog, but the entire diner explodes into cheers at the first few notes of _Born to Run_ and Emma is glad she didn’t spoil the surprise. Killian’s wide-eyed look is totally worth it.

“What is happening right now?” he asks, David already pulling Mary Margaret towards the tiny bit of floor they’d opened up for karaoke. “This is not exactly festive.”  
  
“It’ll make sense in a second,” Elsa promises. She’s let Anna tug her onto the floor, a rare display of rhythm that only ever occurs post karaoke and eggnog and Emma is still sitting on her designated stool.

Killian tilts his head again. That feels like cheating. “Will it?”  
  
“Guaranteed,” Emma says.

“Good. Alright, well, let’s go, Swan.”  
  
He wiggles his fingers in front of her when she doesn’t take his outstretched hand immediately, gawking slightly at the movement because it feels like several of her organs are shutting down one by one, but that only lasts long enough for him to sigh and Bruce Springsteen is still singing and the diner is singing and Killian pulls her off the stool with both hands.

Her feet don’t touch the ground.

He holds onto her and it’s as impressive as it is kind of romantic – in a true love, Paul McCartney kind of way, spinning and twisting her and Emma’s laugh bubbles out of her. She loses track of time, the song beating through her and settling into her soul and Killian’s whole body is impossibly warm. She can hear David singing along and Mary Margaret giggling, the tap of Regina’s heels a few feet away because even the mayor of Storybrooke gets up for _Born to Run_ and Emma’s fingers find the back of Killian’s hair at some point.

To keep her balance.

Or whatever.

He doesn’t ever put her down.

And the song keeps playing and Emma’s certain it gets louder, but that may just be the sound of her own heartbeat and she’s almost positive she’s going to kiss him or he’s going to kiss her, but the music shifts and Killian mutters a quiet _ahhh_ under his breath.

Emma’s feet crash back to the ground

“Now we can listen to Christmas music,” Emma explains, like any of this makes any sense, but _Santa Claus is Coming to Town_ is playing now and there are saxophone solos and more tradition. “Granny totally had a crush on Bruce Springsteen.”  
  
Killian scoffs, a pinch between his eyebrows that Emma wants to brush away. “Ah, well, who wouldn’t at that point in his career?”  
  
“You better believe it,” Granny yells.

“How did she hear that?”  
  
“She may also be a wolf,” Emma mutters. “Made sneaking back into the house very difficult.”  
  
“Did you do a lot of sneaking, Swan?”

“Enough.”  
  
“Too much,” Granny corrects, and Emma lets her head fall forward. Killian doesn’t flinch.

“Maybe you’re the pirate,” Killian laughs. He rolls his shoulder, trying to get Emma to look up and she’s almost annoyed when she does because she genuinely can’t come up with another phrase except _stupid attractive_. “Does this first Christmas song segue into tree lighting?”  
  
Emma nods. Common sense should not be this attractive. “Smart guy.”  
  
“Context clues. Is there more eggnog out there?”  
  
“Hot chocolate. That’s Mr. Blanchard’s schtick. He takes it very seriously.”  
  
“Of course he does. Do you have a particular spot you like to see from?”  
  
“She sits on the fence every single year,” Mary Margaret and Elsa shout in tandem before Regina adds, “Right in front of Town Hall.”  
  
Killian’s eyes are stupid. Everything is stupid. Emma is the most stupid.

“Good to know,” he grins, lacing his fingers through hers and directing her towards the fence in front of Town Hall as the final few notes of the song play behind them.

And, really, in retrospect she should have expected it, but it had been going well. Or, relatively well, Killian’s thumb brushing over the back of her palm while the fifth grade Storybrooke elementary school choir sang the most generic holiday songs possible, but then Leo Blanchard is in front of them with a tray of hot chocolate and a sprig of _something_ in his hand.

“I come bearing gifts,” he says, as if it’s not the single lamest thing anyone has said ever. “And encouragement.”  
  
Emma blinks. “What?”  
  
“Encouragement.”  
  
It takes her a few seconds to process what the hell he’s talking about, but then he’s shaking the goddamn mistletoe in her face and she really should have expected it. “Where did you get that?” she demands. “Is that even real?”  
  
“Of course it’s real, Emma. You think I’d show you counterfeit mistletoe? Where is your sense of jolly and seasonal cheer?”  
  
“I’m not sure that I’ve ever had one.”  
  
“Exactly. Now c’mon, pucker up.”  
  
“Oh my God, Mr. Blanchard, did you do this to your kids? Where’s Mary Margaret? She’s overflowing with jolly and cheer.”

“Shall I repeat myself, Emma? And Regina tried to throw a snowball at me.”  
  
“I’m considering that too.”  
  
“Emma.”  
  
She makes a threatening noise in the back of her throat, but Killian’s muttering something and his thumb is tapping a slightly different rhythm and he’s already jumped off the top of the fence. He’s standing in front of her. He hasn’t actually let go of her hand.

“Give me that,” he mutters, untwisting his fingers from Emma’s to pull the mistletoe out of Mr. Blanchard’s grip. Emma’s lungs have exploded. She chews on her lip, widening her eyes and trying to remember the plan and the schedule and her own, personal return policy. She can’t.

She can’t remember anything except blue eyes and the slight turn to his lips and his left arm finds its way back around her waist when he tugs her forward.

He’s standing between her legs when her lips land on his – because even with mistletoe in his hand and Mr. Blanchard lurking on the edges of the moment, Killian Jones waits for Emma Swan to move first and kiss him first and she absolutely kisses him first.

It’s awkward at first, which is understandable if not a little disappointing, but that lasts less than half a breath and then they’re both pushing towards each other and it’s a mess of lips and teeth and tongue and Emma’s fingers find their way back into Killian’s hair.

He makes this one, particular noise that she’ll probably think of every Christmas from now until the end of whatever – even after she becomes some kind of holiday-themed ghost – because Emma is fairly certain that one, particular noise changes everything. It’s not quite a groan and not entirely a growl, more like he’s trying to breathe her in and out, set up a rhythm in the air they’re exchanging and the moment they’re lingering in and Emma feels as if it warms her from the inside out.

She’s positive it doesn’t have anything to do with the eggnog.

Killian tilts his head, trying to deepen the kiss or make sure his tongue can keep swiping over her lower lip and Emma isn’t about to argue either one of those things, particularly when the hem of her shirt rides up slightly and she arches her back against the feel of plastic against her skin.

She has to hook her right foot around his calf to make sure she doesn’t fall off the fence.  

Neither one of them seems very interested in actually pulling apart – or breathing – but Mr. Blanchard coughs and the mistletoe is a lost cause and Emma didn’t realize they’d lit up the tree already.

That was not part of the plan. At all. And it all feels a little on the nose too.

Killian brushes his lips over hers again. “You’ve got to be tired, love,” he says softly, and Emma nods, letting him move her off the fence and she doesn’t question how he’s already memorized the directions in downtown Storybrooke.

They say their goodbyes and promise to see everyone tomorrow, another schedule and more moments, but Emma can’t think of any of that when her head feels like it’s spinning into the stratosphere. She’s not even sure if that’s a real thing.

There’s more silence between them as they walk, but Killian’s hand finds hers again or Emma’s finds his and the specifics don’t matter when they come to a stop in front of the door. To a room at a bed and breakfast. With one goddamn bed.

The whole thing is ridiculous.

Emma figures she can’t make it worse.

“You uh…” she starts, nodding towards the bed and Killian doesn’t let go of her when she takes a shaky step forward. “It’s a fairly big bed.”  
  
His lips twitch. The lie is obvious. It’s a small bed with far too many blankets, but they definitely just made out and he gave her a ten-out-of-ten on her karaoke. The second one may have done more to her tenuous grip on reality.

“Ok,” Killian nods after what seems like an inexcusable amount of time before responding. “You want the bathroom first?”  
  
“Sure.”  
  
“Ok.”

It takes, by Emma’s admittedly unofficial count, twelve minutes and thirty-two seconds for them to be, officially, ready for bed. The mattress creaks when she drops onto it and the springs don’t seem all that impressed when Killian joins, their arms brushing when they both lay awkwardly on their backs.

“So, uh…” Emma starts, but she snaps her mouth closed when Killian’s head turns towards her.

“It was a good first day, love. We’ll figure out the pie thing tomorrow, right?”

Emma nods, hair twisting underneath her and, well, _fuck it_ , she flips onto her side and scrunches her legs up and it’s the most comfortable she’s been in weeks. Probably longer. Definitely longer.

“Ok,” she whispers, trying to quell that feeling of hope simmering in the pit of her stomach, but neither one of them say anything when their legs tangle together and Emma smiles when she realizes Killian’s fallen asleep before her.

She doesn’t wake up once all night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for being as psyched about this mess of words as I am! So, uh, fake dating can't ever be easy, right? There's got to be some feelings involved. We'll deal with some more of those pesky feelings next chapter too. 
> 
> Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down.


	3. Chapter 3

She’s the Grinch.

That’s the only explanation for whatever happens to Emma’s body as soon as she wakes up, flipping on her side to find the rest of the bed empty and the sheets under her outstretched hand decidedly cold.

And, really, she’s got no right whatsoever to be anything about any of it.

This is not that kind of thing. This is...a whatever kind of thing. A great, big giant lie some entirely unhelpful corner of her brain reminds her, but then some other part of her brain is quick to point out that those particular adjectives don’t make any sense in the context of the very real making out she and Killian participated in the night before.

Because that’s absolutely what it had been.

It had been making out and it had been _something_ in a way it absolutely, positively was not supposed to be and Emma was fairly certain of...she had absolutely no idea.

Definitely the Grinch.

He probably didn’t get to make out very often anyway, what with the Who’s and the general pettiness and Emma could never understand how he fed Max if he lived on that mountain all by himself. Where did he even find Max? The logistics of it didn’t make any sense at all.

Were the Who's born that way or did they evolve to look like that?

Where was Whoville in relation to the rest of the world? How did they know about Santa Claus?

Maybe they were distant descendants of the elves.

None of it made any sense at all.

That may have just been Emma – whose current state of emotional upheaval was entirely her own doing and her own fault and she’d managed to play herself in less than twenty-four hours. That probably would have been impressive if she weren’t so decidedly Grinch-like.

It feels as if her heart is shrinking.

She can’t imagine what biology the Grinch is dealing with. His resting heart rate must be ridiculous.

Emma sighs, throwing a far too dramatic arm over her face and she knows she’s going to have to get out of bed eventually. There’s more schedule to contend with and more people and she’s really got to do something about the pie situation.

The pie situation has become some kind of code. To herself. She’s going insane. Maybe that’s why the Grinch was so angry. He was lonely on the mountain. Max never really talked back.

Maybe Emma should get a dog when she gets home.

God, she is home.

With Killian Jones. Technically. She has no idea where Killian is.

“Alright, alright, alright,” Emma mumbles, to herself. Because she is alone. In the room. In the bed and breakfast. Ruby is seriously going to kill her for getting to stay in the bed and breakfast. “We’ve got to get up.”  
  
Apparently Emma talks in the third person now.

That’s probably a sign of impending insanity and likelihood of stealing all the presents from the Who's.

Emma swings her legs over the side of the bed, not entirely familiar with the layout of the room, but she’s not sure that has anything to do with the way her vision swims in front of her face as soon as she stands up. That may have something to do with the eggnog she’d had the night before. And the making out.

The making out probably didn’t make her drunk – it just felt that way. So, really, she’s a complete and utter disaster with no pie and no actual boyfriend and neither one of those things should make it feel as if Christmas has been preemptively ruined on Christmas Eve, but Emma’s feeling decidedly dramatic and particularly Grinch-like and it had felt far too real.

It had felt far too easy. Like breathing. Or getting drunk on spiked eggnog.

She needs to ask Killian why he agreed to any of this.

She needs to brush her goddamn teeth.

Emma trudges into the small bathroom in the corner of the room, more nautical decor on the walls because the summer crowd in Storybrooke loves nothing more than all things nautical, trying to pull the tangles from the ends of her hair. She hopes her hair didn’t get into Killian’s face in the middle of the night.

She assumes he would have woken her up if it had been a problem. Maybe. Hopefully.

That word is starting to get on Emma’s nerves.

Merry Christmas, or whatever.

And she almost doesn’t see it at first – eyes downcast and shoulders decidedly slumped, grabbing her toothbrush from the edge of the sink and all but thrusting her hand under the water as soon as she turns it on. But it only takes a moment to glance up, mouth hanging open and wrist going slack because there’s a post-it note barely hanging onto the middle of the mirror.

Emma’s shoulders slump even more, a breath rushing out of her that almost leads to choking via toothbrush. She blinks. And blinks again. The post-it is still there

She can’t imagine where he found a post-it.

The handwriting is a little crooked – like it was scrawled quickly or possibly with a bit of holiday-based excitement and Emma’s fingers shake slightly when she reaches out a cautious hand towards it. There’s still a bit of residue on the mirror when she tugs the post-it off.

_You’re the heaviest sleeper in the history of the world. I’ve commandeered the kitchen, so you should probably meet me downstairs._

Emma lets out a shaky laugh, tugging her lip between her teeth like she’s worried the moment isn’t real or is as fake as she’s convinced herself it has to be. Because the whole thing is based on a lie.

Her lie.

That she told.

She’s a disaster.

And she hasn’t actually finished brushing her teeth. There’s toothpaste on her tongue still.

She huffs, shaking her head and finally turning off the sink and it only takes her six minutes to get in the shower, out of the shower and into clothes. She puts the post-it note in her wallet.

Emma doesn’t race down the stairs in the back, but she’s certainly closer to running than walking and she nearly breaks both her ankles on three different occasions. It leaves her skidding to a stop in front of the swinging door of the kitchen, mumbling curses under her breath and threatening to chew a hole in her lip.

She doesn’t hear him move towards her.

It leaves her with an almost broken ankle again – jumping and flinching and Killian chuckles when he twists his arm around her. He’s wearing an apron.

Emma is decidedly screwed.

It’s like when Cindy Lou Who showed up and asked the Grinch why he was stealing their presents. But maybe with more kissing. Hopefully. And less small children. So, really, nothing like that at all.

“Why were you lurking out here?” Killian asks, as if it’s totally normal for him to be alone in Granny’s kitchen with what appears to be a container of something in his right hand if the pressure digging into Emma’s spine is any indication.

“I wasn’t lurking.”  
  
“Swan, you were just standing there.”  
  
“How did you know how to get to the kitchen?”  
  
HIs smile moves across his face slowly, which is honestly the most offensive thing a smile can do, particularly when it’s on Killian’s face. Emma is grateful he hasn’t moved his arm yet. She’s not entirely confident in the state of her joints at this point.

“I have eyes,” he mutters. “And like I said, you’re a very sound sleeper, love.”  
  
“I’m not sure I understand how those two go together at all. Are you baking something?”  
  
“We’re baking something.”  
  
“What?”  
  
Killian hums, tugging her further into the kitchen and Emma’s eyes widen at the same time her jaw drops because there’s far more happening here than whatever he’s still got pressed into the base of her spine. There are containers all over the counter, spices and flour and sugar and what, at first glance, appears to be a bowl full of actual whipped cream. Not cool whip. Not something in a pressurized cane. Actual whipped cream.

Like Killian made it.

Before ten o’clock in the morning on Christmas Eve.

“Are you an elf?” Emma asks, jerking her head towards him in just enough time to see his smile turn slightly incredulous.

“Excuse me?”  
  
“You know. Like...an elf.”  
  
“You can’t use the word in the definition, Swan.”  
  
She groans, but she’s also charmed and that’s been the theme for the last few hours and since the wedding and it’s all so easy, Emma is certain she will eventually scream about it. Or kiss Killian again. She’s not particular about either one.

“Elves are crazy productive,” she shrugs, and Killian’s expression is unfair. He’s doing a horrible job of not laughing at her. “You know they make all those...etch-a-sketches.”  
  
“Etch-a-sketches.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
Killian arches an eyebrow. “Are you quoting _Elf_ to me right now? Is that honestly what’s happening?”  
  
“I’m not actually quoting anything. I’m...suggesting.”  
  
“That I’m an elf?”  
  
“Or at least raised by elves.”  
  
“I was not raised by elves,” Killian promises, but he can’t quite keep the laughter out of his voice and Emma clicks her tongue like she’s even remotely frustrated.

She takes a step forward instead, buoyed by a sense of misplaced confidence and sentimentality and probably just the generic feeling of Christmas because she hadn’t noticed the music playing in the background before.

And Killian doesn’t flinch when she brushes the tips of her fingers over the shell of his ear, but she can see a muscle in his jaw jump and he inhales sharply. “You kind of look it though,” Emma mumbles. “You could work a costume well. Maybe get some part-time gig at Macy’s.”  
  
It is, hands down, the most ludicrous thing she has ever said.

“Is that a compliment?” Killian asks, rocking towards her and he’s never put the container down, but his hand keeps moving back to Emma and she nods.

“Obviously. Was that not clear?”  
  
“Not entirely crystal.”  
  
“Ah, well…” Emma cuts herself off when the music shifts again and something in the very _center_ of her stutters because--”Is this The Carpenters?”

Killian nods, his hand heavy on Emma’s hip. Again. Like those magnets have returned. “Festive.”  
  
“Super,” she mumbles, tongue darting out between her suddenly dry lips and the air feels far heavier and far more meaningful and the very first Christmas she’d been in Storybrooke and Granny told her she could stay in Storybrooke as long as she wanted, The Carpenters had been playing in the background, a quiet melody that seemed to have settled into Emma’s soul and every single corner of what she’d always wanted.

And there’s no way for Killian to have known that, but it doesn’t really matter to Emma’s heart or her aforementioned soul.

“Did you say we were going to bake?” Emma asks suddenly, and Killian blinks at her abrupt shift in tone.

“I did promise we’d figure out the pie situation, didn’t I?”  
  
“I just figured we’d kind of...I don’t know, hide out in the corner of the restaurant for most of the night. Maybe see if Ruth made an extra one we could cop.”  
  
“Ruth was one of my co-judges last night, right?”

“David’s mom, almost as good at baking as Granny, but please don’t tell either one of them I said that.”  
  
Killian mimes zipping his mouth shut. Something on the other side of the kitchen beeps. “Mum’s the word, love. Does Ruth usually bake more than one pie?”  
  
“Oh, yeah,” Emma nods, jumping onto the edge of the closest counter when Killian turns towards the nearest oven. “I think it’s because she and Granny have some kind of unspoken competition about it, but also because she’s trying to make sure David’s got as many options as humanly possible.”  
  
“Of pie?”

“Ah, of happiness-type things.”  
  
“Was that code?”  
  
Emma makes a contradictory noise, kicking her foot out only to let it slam into the cabinet underneath her. Killian is mixing something. It probably should not be attractive. She’s going to blame the apron. “Not in a way that makes any sense because nothing about this town makes any sense.”

“Ah, it’s nice.”  
  
“It’s overbearing, but that’s because we’ve all kind of got some vaguely depressing backstories and it’s almost like...the Island of Misfit Toys.”  
  
Killian smirks, leaning forward to grab something else and he doesn’t seem to be measuring anything. “You’re full of references this morning, aren’t you?”  
  
“It’s because I haven’t had enough coffee to become a normal person yet,” Emma reasons. Killian makes a triumphant noise – as if he’s only just remembering something and he’s a flash of limbs and bright, blue eyes and the exceptionally stupid smirk, rummaging through the cabinet closest to Emma’s head.

She rests her hands on his shoulders before she can rationalize any reason not to.

He doesn’t tell her to move.

He hands her a coffee mug. And a bag of Reese’s Christmas trees.

Emma’s going to cry. Listening to The Carpenters and baking pies, or probably just one pie, no one but Ruth makes more pie, and--

“How did you know that?” she breaths, and his smile is even more distracting when his tongue is doing whatever it’s doing in the corner of his mouth.

“Granny asked me to go get some from...what’s the name of the general store?”  
  
“Main Street Mercantile.”  
  
Killian hums, smile still there and the muscles in his face must ache. Emma doesn’t say that out loud. It doesn’t sound like the compliment it probably should be. “Ah, exactly,” he nods. “She said you probably wouldn’t come out of the room unless you were bribed with a trail of these leading down the stairs.”  
  
“Wow. That is...scathing. And patently untrue.”  
  
“Is it? It’s pretty late, Swan.”  
  
“It’s Christmas Eve! Also, were you just hanging out with Granny all morning? Did you eat? Why were you awake?”  
  
“In order of question. Not all morning, she apparently had something to do with the mayor?” Emma rolls her eyes. “But part of the morning. It was almost too obvious Granny would have been incredibly offended if I had not accepted her bacon, egg and cheese sandwich. Does she make those English muffins herself?”

“It’s a super top secret recipe. Ruby tried to duplicate it once on my birthday and it was an absolute disaster.”  
  
“Well, they’re delicious. What was your last question?”  
  
“Why were you awake,” Emma repeats. “And what exactly are you baking?”  
  
Killian grits his teeth, a hiss of breath and that’s not the response she’d expected. “Old habits,” he mumbles, and she can hear the deflection there. “Also, we’ve covered that already. It’s a pie. Or it will be once it goes in the oven and you decide to get off the counter and help.”  
  
“Did you ask me to help?”  
  
“I assumed it was implied.”  
  
“You know what happens when you assume.”

Killian’s laugh almost makes Emma forget whatever happened to his face as soon as he mumbled _old habits_ and she takes his hand when he offers it, letting him pull her off the edge of the counter with a soft thump. “You really didn’t have to go get me chocolate Christmas trees,” she mutters, dragging her hands up his arms.

And it all happens so quickly, she briefly wonders if she just imagines it, but Emma’s eyes flit towards her fingers when she feels Killian tense underneath her and she must curse under her breath. He makes some kind of noise in the back of his throat, a grunt or a groan or a promise of _it’s fine, love_ that seems particularly hollow when her fingers are resting on the top of his brace.

“And they’re not just chocolate,” Killian reasons. “The peanut butter made them totally worth the quest I went on.”

Emma tilts her head. And moves her hands back to her side. “Oh, it was a quest now?”  
  
“A very gallant one.”  
  
“For candy?”  
  
“Candy for you.”

There’s a hesitancy to his words, something that makes Emma’s pulse thud and her heart grow, at least two sizes, and she figures it’ll probably get to the Grinch-mandated three by the end of the night. She hopes so, at least.

“Thank you,” she whispers, hoping he realizes she’s not actually talking about prepackaged candy that rarely ever looks like Christmas trees.

“I wanted to.”  
  
That’s less hesitant. That’s honest. And straightforward. And, God, Emma hopes so much she’s positive she reeks with it.

That can’t possibly be the right verb.

She nods slowly, rocking back on her heels and doing her best not to blink. And breathe. She needs to breathe.

“Did Granny tell you about The Carpenters too?” Emma asks.

“Should she have?”  
  
“No, no, I...this place is seriously the Island of Misfit Toys, you know. That was a reference, but it was also kind of true.”  
  
“Did you want to be a dentist at one point, Swan? Also, I’d like the record to show that in this instance you’re calling yourself an elf.”

She scoffs, but she’s still being charmed and Killian flashes a grin when she swipes her finger through the bowl of whipped cream. “Incorrect. I never wanted to be a dentist. Anna considered it once, but then she realized there were actually teeth involved and--”  
  
“--She didn’t realize she would have to deal with teeth? That’s, like, the basis of being a dentist.”  
  
“Yeah, well, Anna is kind of...man, flighty sounds really offensive doesn’t it?”  
  
“I promise not to tell, Swan.”  
  
Emma feels kind of drunk again. She steals more whipped cream – if only to make sure Killian’s eyes do that wide, slightly scandalized thing. “My hero,” she teases, and he clicks his tongue, but she might actually be charming him at this point. “Should we be baking while I explain this?”  
  
“What is this, exactly?”  
  
“Storybrooke.”  
  
Killian doesn’t answer immediately, and for half a second it’s off-putting, but then he tilts his head again and Emma gets that feeling like he’s appraising her or trying to read her and is only a little frustrated that he can’t. Because it’s very obvious he wants to. And for the first time in as long as Emma can remember, she wants to too.

The structure of that sentence is confusing.

She’s going to eat all the whipped cream before they bake anything.

“I’d like that,” he says, and it feels like he’s just recited _The Night Before Christmas_ or some other far-too-long poem. “And we’re making Millionaire’s Pie.”  
  
Emma blinks. “Did you just make that up?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“What is that?”  
  
“Chocolate, caramel, coconut and uh...pecans.”  
  
“None of those things sound like they should go together.”  
  
“You were willing to buy key lime pie, Swan,” Killian points out, nodding towards a container and mouthing _that one_ at Emma. “I promise this is far more appropriate for the holiday.”

“Seriously, you need to stop glazing over the most interesting part of that story. You’re the one who insulted Aurora and her pies.”  
  
“No one wants key lime pie in December.”  
  
Emma hums, the certainty on his face making it impossible to argue. “Why is it called Millionaire’s Pie?”  
  
“Because eating it makes you feel like a million bucks.”

She laughs – loud and earnest, her head thrown back with the force of it and Killian stares at her like they both just won the lottery. “That’s the cheesiest thing I’ve ever heard.”  
  
“There’s no cheese involved in this,” he promises. “You want to crimp the edges of the crust?”  
  
“Look at you with your technical terms.”  
  
“Swan, we’ve been over this, I know absolutely everything. You want to crimp or no?”  
  
“Obviously I want to crimp.”

“Then...”

Emma sticks her tongue out, but that only makes his smile grow and her heart continues to do _whatever_ , hammering against the inside of her ribs. “Fine, fine, I am crimping. Should I use my fingers or…”  
  
“We’re not animals, love,” Killian mutters, leaning back to hand her a fork and Emma cannot fathom how he’s already learned the layout of the kitchen as well. Like belongs there.

With her.

She’s insane.

She wonders why she hasn’t dipped one of the Christmas trees in the whipped cream yet.

“You’ve got a lot of very high opinions for a guy wearing an apron,” Emma says. “Also did you want to hear this story?”  
  
“Of course I did. You’re the one who seems incapable of multitasking.”

Emma glares. It earns her a smirk. So, naturally, she reaches forward grabs the plastic container of flour, yanks the top off and flicks a handful at Killian – in the face. He gasps, blinking quickly and she probably should have given him some warning because--  
  
“--You could blind a man like that, Swan!”  
  
“I think that’s a commentary on your reflexes, actually. And, would you look at that? I am crimping and distracting you. Maybe you’re just incapable of staying on task.”

He opens his mouth, only to close it. Four times in a row. And he’s still blinking at her, like he’s trying to make sure she hasn’t disappeared. Emma isn’t entirely certain she hasn’t.

She feels light and heavy and nervous and excited and whatever is happening in the pit of her stomach feels a bit like acid reflux, but it’s also kind of pleasant in a way that seems like there’s some kind of fire there as well, warming her from the inside out and he went to Mercantile.

He got her Christmas trees.

Karen Carpenter is still singing in the background.

“Oh that was a mistake, love,” he mutters, moving around the island in the middle of the kitchen far quicker than Emma is entirely prepared for.

Her breath catches when he wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her flush and firm against his chest. She squirms, but that only seems to egg him on, laughter ringing in her ears and Killian’s chin digging into the top of her shoulder.

He has to change his hold on her to grab his own container of baking product off the counter and neither one of them acknowledge _it_ , but it feels like they’ve crossed a line. That may also have something to do with Emma’s ass pressed into him, but that’s neither here nor there.

It’s less festive.

It’s...something else altogether and Emma would love to consider it, but she’s too busy trying to work out of Killian’s hold and he nips at the side of her neck when she stomps on his right foot.

“Oh, that is not playing fair at all,” Killian grumbles, and Emma laughs like she’s won.

And for half a second she believes she has. She thinks that’s that and the flirting is _flirting_ and she’s somewhere in the realm of confident about whatever the hell it is they’re doing until Killian yells _aha_ in her ear and there’s a handprint on her stomach – made of confectioners sugar.

“Are you kidding me?” Emma balks.

Killian laughs again, and they’re moving, Emma’s feet sliding across the kitchen floor until she’s bumping against the island. He keeps her pinned there, grabbing another handful of sugar to drag across her forearm, circling the same spot on her wrist he’d been so focused on the night before and Emma is momentarily dumbfounded.

Probably because this shouldn’t be happening. And it certainly shouldn’t be this much fun.

She finally gets her bearings when Killian swipes his fingers across the collar of her shirt, landing on skin and sending a spark of what feels like actual electricity through her veins. Emma spins on the spot, It’s enough to take him by surprise, his quiet _ooof_ a very particular victory when her hips cant up and there’s still some flour on the ends of Emma’s fingers.

Killian curses when she cards them through his hair.

“You are a menace,” he accuses. Emma shrugs. “You know how long that’s going to take to get out of my hair?”  
  
“I only brought so many clothes. Who uses confectioners sugar like that? It’s like glitter.”

He huffs, an exhale of air and feeling. And for half a moment Emma thinks he’s going to call a truce, because this is only sort of childish and they’re both going to get yelled at by Granny, but then Killian’s hands are moving and she’s not on her feet anymore. He drags his hands across the back of her shirt, eyes bright and a little devious and that might be her new favorite look – even when he’s getting confectioners sugar all over her rather limited clothing selection.

Emma grumbles when Killian drops her back on the edge of the counter, a position that’s starting to feel especially familiar, particularly when he works his way between her legs. She hooks her foot around his calf again.

If only to hear that sound again.

She isn’t disappointed.

It’s better the second time.

And she’s got every intention of kissing him. She does, really. She wants to and, possibly, needs to, but Killian tilts his head up and there’s something just on the edge of his gaze that feels much bigger than anything else and--

“I’m really glad you’re here,” Emma whispers.

Killian blinks. That same muscle in his jaw moves again. “Yeah?” he asks softly, Emma nodding quickly enough she’s worried she’s going to make her neck crack.

“Yeah. I, um...I know it’s, well, you’re doing me an enormous favor and I can’t thank you enough for that, but I’m...I wasn’t expecting to have fun.”  
  
“You’ve got a rather low opinion of me, love,” Killian laughs, fingers trailing up and down her side. She’s not sure he realizes he’s doing it. There’s flour and sugar everywhere.

“No, I don’t.”  
  
They don’t freeze. They’re definitely breathing. Emma can feel her shoulders moving, can see Killian’s chest shift on every inhale, but they don’t speak either and that feels decidedly important and possibly life-changing and she needs to learn the importance of silence.

“Because I wasn’t kidding about the Island of Misfit Toys,” Emma continues. “I...I told you how I got here at the wedding and there’s...David’s dad died and Mary Margaret’s mom died and it took forever for her and Regina to not hate each other and…” She exhales, head falling forward until Killian’s fingers shift, moving away from her side and curling around the back of her neck. Emma doesn’t mention that he’s getting sugar in her hair. “But they’ve all figured it out and they’re all happy and they always just accepted me. Wanted me to be here and I...I’m really glad you’re here too.”  
  
More silence.

That’s kind of disappointing.

Until it’s...not and the force of Killian’s answering smile is almost blinding if that weren’t the most cliché thing Emma had ever thought.

“I’m glad I’m here too, Swan,” he says. “What’s your most scathing Christmas opinion?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Most scathing.”  
  
“Why do you want to know that?”  
  
“I’d like to know everything.”  
  
Emma has to swallow before she can even consider her response, emotions bubbling and festering and that’s a disgusting word but she realizes she hasn’t actually had any coffee yet and it’s probably a miracle she’s even cognizant.

Killian’s fingers are still in her hair.

“I hate that people thin,  _My Favorite Things_ from _The Sound of Music_ is a Christmas song. It’s not. It’s not even from a Christmas scene, like _Meet Me in St. Louis_. It mentions snow, like, once. It’s the dumbest thing in the world.”

“ _Meet Me in St. Louis_ could probably be a Halloween movie if you want to get technical.”  
  
“Exactly! It’s dumb. It’s like ABC Family or whatever it’s called--”  
  
“--Showing _Harry Potter_ all the time in December?”

This should not be attractive. This should not be even ground. Emma’s mind doesn’t care. The Carpenters are still playing.

“Is that your most scathing Christmas opinion?” Emma asks, and Killian hums in agreement.

“The hottest of hot takes. I blame society. And commercialism.”  
  
“Don’t you know? That’s what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown.”  
  
He chuckles, dropping his head back towards her shoulder and Emma can’t tell if he actually kisses where his mouth lands. She wants him to. Far more than she probably should. But this doesn’t really feel very fake and they’ve still got to bake a pie.

“I’m not sure that’s how the movie works, love.”  
  
“Ah, I don’t know about that. We’ll watch it later. You’ll see.”  
  
“It’s a date.”  
  
Emma nearly bites her tongue in half. “It’s a date,” she repeats. “I didn’t get to finish crimping.”  
  
“I told you, you weren’t very good at multitasking.”  
  
“Oh shut up, go mix something.”  
  
Killian nods, hair brushing over the side of Emma’s neck in the process and they don’t throw any more ingredients at each other, but Granny is decidedly scandalized by the state of her kitchen when she walks in an hour and a half later. They’re late for lunch at Regina and Robin’s.

Emma and Killian ate all the Christmas trees.

“This is the most intricately decorated house I have ever seen,” Killian mutters in Emma’s ear as soon as they walk inside. Without knocking.

“Take your shoes off.”  
  
“Are you kidding me?”  
  
“Do you want to get grounded?”  
  
Killian scoffs, but he does as instructed, the ends of his mouth ticking up when Emma uses him to keep her balance as she toes out of her own boots. And, really, it’s an empty threat because Regina loves order and control and she definitely thinks tinsel is the pinnacle of tackiness, but the tree in the corner is covered in Henry and Roland’s homemade ornaments.

It smells like apples everywhere.

“How old is this house?” Killian asks, voice still low and it might be the single most endearing thing she’s ever heard.

“Are you researching right now?”  
  
He shrugs, lower lip stuck out and, no, that’s definitely more endearing. “I’m curious. Ballpark it for me.”  
  
“I am not a history major.”  
  
“What did you major in?”  
  
“Criminal justice.”  
  
Killian’s expression shifts slightly – leaning far too close to impressed for Emma’s sugar-addled brain to be able to deal with. “Do you think this is a historical landmark?”  
  
“Oh my God, look at you. It’s like your salivating at the opportunity to document this.”  
  
“Incorrect. I am intrigued. Also this bannister has got to be, like, two-hundred years old. Look at the carving on it. Someone did that by hand.”  
  
“You can tell that just by looking at it.”  
  
“I’d really love some confirmation,” Killian grins, looking a bit like a kid on Christmas which is oddly appropriate all things considered. “The insurance on this place must be ridiculous.”  
  
Emma can’t help the sound that falls out of her – a mix of laughter and disbelief and being impossibly charmed by the whole thing and some other word that also means endearing and Killian’s voice keeps picking up speed. Like a kid on Christmas. “Please don’t ask Regina about the insurance premiums on her house.”  
  
“Does madam mayor also employee the Storybrooke decorating committee?” He waves a hand back towards the bannister, which honestly may be hand carved, Emma’s never really considered it too much, particularly when its covered in ivy.

She shakes her head. “Get ready to meet the Mills-Locksley decorating committee.”

The small body that slams into her side appears to have defied the rules of physics and possibly gravity, and Emma grunts when Roland’s forehead slams into her right hip. Henry groans. “We talked about that, Rol,” he sighs.

Emma tries to wave him off, but it’s a sudden and expected onslaught of _Emma, Emma, Emma_ and _did you bring candy_ and _can we play yet_. She closes her eyes, letting the enthusiasm wash over her and sink into her and there’s more shouting when the door opens again.

Roland leaps towards David, his laugh turning closer to a cackle when he’s flipped upside down. “What did we say about the limbs, Rol?” David asks, hissing as he tries to shift the kid’s weight without dislocating something.

“You are way too old to be doing this, Nolan,” Emma says, only because he can’t flip her off when Henry and Roland are standing there.

“Especially after he was complaining about his sore back all last night,” Mary Margaret adds.

David looks scandalized. That may also be because Killian’s moved his arm back around Emma’s waist. She probably doesn’t lean into it. Probably. “Aw, c’mon,” David mumbles. “I told you that in confidence.”

“You should know Mary Margaret is incapable of keeping a secret,” Regina says, leaning over the top of the bannister with a smile on her face. “Emma, is there flour in your hair?”  
  
“Confectioners sugar.”  
  
“Ah, of course.”  
  
“We made a pie,” Killian explains. Regina’s eyebrows leap into her hairline. “Hi, we only kind of met last night. I’m Killian Jones.”  
  
“Regina Mills. Robin is…”  
  
“Talking to Granny about the wine,” Henry finishes.

Regina hums, opening her mouth to, probably, remind them to take off their shoes, but Roland is quicker and still coherent even when upside down and Emma should have expected a six-year-old to be this curious. “Is that your boyfriend, Emma?”  
  
He more or less shouts the question – the words sounding particularly loud when it appears everyone else has frozen and Emma knows she doesn’t imagine the way Killian’s fingers tighten around her waist. “Uh..” Emma stammers, and she just needs to nod. Or lie. Or say something.

Anything.

Because she can feel Mary Margaret staring at her and Regina’s eyes are far too knowing and--

“What are you guys doing?” Robin asks, appearing in the foyer with Granny half a step behind and what appears to be a liquid thermometer in his hand. “Is this some kind of new, very strange intimidation tactic?”  
  
“Intimidation tactic,” Killian echoes, and it’s as if everyone’s been flicked back on or had their batteries recharged. Emma exhales. And totally leans into Killian’s arm.

“We play a very serious game of UNO with multiple decks. If you let Emma win again, I’ll probably kick you out of my house.”  
  
“It’s not that serious,” Mary Margaret promises, but that’s kind of a lie and they’ve been known to make alliances in the past.

“It’s totally that serious,” Henry argues. “We bought new cards this year, Emma, so you can’t keep finding the Draw Fours with the ones you dogeared.”  
  
Killian’s head snaps towards her, stunned and definitely impressed and Emma feels the flush rise in her cheeks. “He’s a kid. He’s exaggerating. I would never cheat at Christmas Eve UNO.”

“Pirate,” Killian mumbles. He ducks his head, and for one crazy, mixed-up second of festivities and feelings Emma is positive he’s going to kiss her right there in that foyer. He doesn’t. At least not really. His lips brush over her temple and the top of her hair and that’s, somehow, even worse, or possibly better and Emma’s lost complete control of the situation.

She probably should have planned on that too.

“Can we play?” Roland shouts, wiggling against David and in a misplaced effort to get back on the ground. He’s still upside down.

“Only if you get on your feet, kid,” Robin grins. He hooks an arm around his son’s waist and David, somehow, gets kicked in the process, but Mary Margaret is laughing and Killian’s fingers are toying with the hem of Emma’s shirt.

Her face feels like it’s on fire.

She feels like she’s on fire.

Regina hasn’t moved off the landing.

“Do you have house rules, then?” Killian asks, following Henry towards the living room and there’s goddamn eggnog on ice like it’s champagne. “If Emma’s been cheating for years--”  
  
“--I have not been cheating for years,” Emma argues, but she’s meet with a chorus of _ehhh_ and Killian’s impossibly close to her on the couch.

“You can’t sit there,” Henry says.

“What?”  
  
“You’re not supposed to sit next to me,” Emma mumbles. “Because--”  
  
“--Things have a tendency to get a little heated between romantic partners,” David explains. “Sometimes, you know...you want your girlfriend to get Draw Fours every single time.”  
  
“To this day, that’s the worst thing David’s ever done to me,” Mary Margaret says.

Emma rolls her eyes – partially because that may, actually, be true and partially because the whole thing is so sugary sweet she has a hard time believing it’s real. And she’s been living it for years. Killian’s eyes dart towards hers, like he’s waiting for her to tell him he can keep sitting next to the on the couch, but she shakes her head. “Them’s the rules,” she shrugs. “Plus, I’ll totally make more pirate jokes if you try to break tradition.”  
  
“You can sit here, Killian,” Roland yells, cross-legged on the floor next to Robin. Emma briefly considers dying. It’d probably be easier than dealing with the increasingly adorable and entirely unfair sight of Killian Jones on the ground in his sock-covered feet and he takes two cookies when Regina appears with a tray.

And he absolutely, positively cheats at UNO, but, for the life of her, Emma cannot figure out how.

It’s as if he’s got his own deck tucked up his sleeve – Draw Fours and a Skip on back-to-back turns that leaves Mary Margaret practically growling and David nearly cackling and Emma is certain she’s going to set a record for points at the end of the round because she somehow ends up staring at a Wild Draw Four on her final turn, with Killian holding his last card.

“Red,” he says, smile teasing and eyes glinting. She feels dizzy. She’s going to drink so much mulled wine later.

“No!”  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“No,” Emma repeats, voice going shrill and she’s going to do something drastic if he doesn’t control his tongue. There are kids around. Her friends are around. _They aren’t actually dating_.

“I think that means you’ve got to take a card, love.”  
  
“Oh, shut up.”  
  
“You really don’t have any red in that entire stockpile of yours?”  
  
“Shut up!”  
  
Killian grins – and absolutely does not move his tongue while Emma grabs at cards, picking up five before she gets a red. He laughs when she slams it down. “I think this means you lost,” he mutters, flipping his wrist to show his last card. Emma sticks her tongue out. That only makes him laugh more. “You put up an admirable fight, Swan.”  
  
“You cheated!”  
  
“You wound me. I would never.”  
  
She huffs, narrowing her eyes and Mary Margaret is laughing again. “How did you do it?” Emma presses, dropping her pile of cards unceremoniously when Regina announces lunch is ready.

“I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about, Swan,” Killian says. He offers her his hand when she moves to stand up, fingers warm as soon as they wrap around hers. “Aren’t you going to count your cards?”  
  
“I am not going to count my cards and you are not nearly as funny as you think you are.”  
  
“I think that’s breaking the rules of UNO, Swan.”  
  
“I’m going to punch you right in the face, I swear.”  
  
He makes an absolutely ridiculous noise that manages to linger in the realm of charming anyway, another press of something to the top of Emma’s hair. “I’m sure that’s the start of some Hallmark movie.”

“You think people get punched a lot in Hallmark movies?”  
  
“I don’t know that I’ve ever seen a Hallmark movie, actually. Add that to the date.”

Emma’s stomach lurches a bit at the casualness of that, but she doesn’t say anything – isn’t entirely sure she can and there are too many people around anyway, food to eat and eggnog to taste test and she’s helping Regina dry dishes a few hours later when she’s, almost, entirely prepared for the look on the woman’s face.

“You want to tell me what’s really going on?” Regina asks, not taking her eyes off the plate she’s scrubbing.

Emma tenses. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”  
  
“Mary Margaret can’t keep a secret.”  
  
“Yuh huh.”  
  
“And you’d never bring home a guy you already went on a date with if that date didn’t end well. You’re not very good at second chances.”  
  
“Wow, that’s kind of harsh,” Emma mumbles, but it’s also kind of right and when Regina’s mom first married Mary Margaret’s dad she’d been chock-full of opinions just like that. About everything and everyone, particularly within the town lines of Storybrooke because Regina had grown up in _Portland_ and that made her _metropolitan_ and Emma had kind of hated her.

But then things had gotten worse and Cora was ten-thousand times more horrible than Regina and possibly why Regina was so horrible to start and there’d been divorce papers and tears and Mary Margaret stayed in Emma’s room for awhile and, eventually, Regina just kind of...mellowed out.

She occasionally still has very strong opinions.

“And totally true,” Regina says. “So, let’s have at it. What’s the real reason the guy who’s clearly obsessed with you is here?”  
  
Emma nearly drops the glass in her hand. “What?”  
  
“Don’t play dumb with me right now.”  
  
“I’m not.”  
  
“Emma.”

“Regina.”  
  
She turns her head, an appraising look that’s made only slightly ridiculous with a sponge in her hand. “Are you an idiot?”  
  
“Merry Christmas.”  
  
“So you are an idiot.”  
  
“Regina, I’m going to drink all your mulled wine later and ruin the Christmas Eve toast.”  
  
“You going to let Killian be part of the Christmas Eve toast?”  
  
Emma makes a noise in the back of her throat, a low and, she hopes, threatening growl that she’s positive doesn’t work when Regina’s eyebrows lift into a perfect arch. “I’ll think about it,” Emma mumbles. “And...we’re not really dating.”  
  
Regina drops the sponge.

“Ok, ok,” Emma says quickly, flipping the towel over her shoulder. “You can’t tell Mary Margaret because she’ll--”  
  
“--Flip out? What do you mean you aren’t dating?”  
  
“We never went on that bad date to begin with.”  
  
Regina’s mouth hangs open the entire time Emma explains the whole, convoluted thing, blinking as if she’s waiting to hear _surprise_ shouted in her face. Her blinks reach hyperactive when that doesn’t, actually, happen.

“So, uh, that’s it,” Emma mutters with a shrug. “I just...I wasn’t thinking and possibly drunk and--”  
  
“--And he’s ridiculously into you,” Regina interrupts. “Do you not have eyes? You know where he is right now? Talking to Robin about the insurance premiums for our house. Fake boyfriends don’t ask about that.”  
  
“Well, I told him not to ask you about that so…”

“Emma,” Regina sighs. “What have you gotten yourself into?”

“An absolute disaster.”

“Yeah, it seems that way. Also, you’re making eyes right back.”  
  
“I don’t make eyes,” Emma hisses, but there are footsteps moving towards them and Robin’s voice echoing in the hall, something about _the state of Maine_ and _the American Revolution_ and Regina stares at her like that’s that. It kind of is. And then some.

She’s totally making eyes.

“Swan,” Killian says, slinging an arm around her shoulder. “Did you know there’s rumors this area was used a camp for Benedict Arnold when he marched to Quebec?”  
  
“No one knows that.”  
  
“Ok, I know that,” Robin counters. “Also Regina definitely knows that.”  
  
“Wasn’t Benedict Arnold a bad guy?” Emma asks, Killian already shaking his head.

“Not at the start, but Quebec certainly didn’t help. The whole thing was a disaster.”  
  
“This house had nothing to do with that,” Regina says, drawing a quiet laugh from Robin where he’s leaning against the doorway. “Also, if you two are done discussing history, we should probably get ready to get back to Granny’s. Does David have the wine?”  
  
Robin nods. “An entire vat.”  
  
“And waiting for someone to help me carry it,” David calls from the foyer. “Also I want to see what kind of pie Emma bought.”

Emma’s objection is sitting on the tip of her tongue, shouts and curses and decidedly un-Christmas thoughts, but Killian’s hand wraps around her shoulder and tugs her closer to his side and she’s making eyes again. “Let it be a surprise, huh?” he grins.

“Yeah, ok.”  
  
And, in the grand scheme of whatever cockamamie idea Emma came up with to make Christmas less annoying or stressful or _something_ , standing in Granny’s with Killian’s arm around her and his fingers toying with her hair while every single person she’d ever considered _important_ promised her Millionaire’s pie was delicious was an unexpected delight.

The muscles in her face were starting to ache, a soft pain that Emma would have accepted every day for the rest of her life it meant she got to feel like this every day for the rest of her life.

Like Christmas.

And loved.

And...she needed some mulled wine.

“Can we toast now?” Anna asks, hours later and the pie is gone and Granny’s food is, mostly, gone, the jukebox playing a steady stream of Christmas hits from 1972. “It’s my first official one.”  
  
“Anna, you’ve been toasting with us for actual years,” Elsa argues.

“Yeah, but I’m twenty-one now, so it’s more..real.”

Emma scoffs, already feeling a little drunk, particularly when she leans back against Killian’s chest. He hasn’t moved farther than a few inches away all night, all hands and arms and quiet touches that feel as if they’ve branded themselves on every inch of her.  
  
“What’s this about a toast, Swan?” he asks.  
  
“Oh, uh, we started doing it years ago as some kind of--”  
  
“--Misplaced effort to be rebels,” David laughs. He’s already got a handful of glasses and they’re tucked into the corner of the diner, as if they’re all about to get caught for underage drinking.

“Basically that,” Emma nods. “Mary Margaret’s mom had this old mulled wine recipe and M’s found it our freshman year in college. So we came home and made it and it was this giant secret--”  
  
“--That everyone knew about,” Robin adds.

“Also true. And it was horrible the first time, but that was, oh God, more than a decade ago and we kept making it every year and now it’s like Robin and Regina’s third child and--”  
  
“--Hey, I resent that.”  
  
“Because it’s also almost true,” Regina admits, crooking a finger at David until he hands her a glass. “So, really, Jones, us telling you this, means you’re part of the coven or whatever.”  
  
“Oh my God, Regina, we are not witches,” Elsa groans. “But seriously, Killian, if you drink this wine, you’re not allowed to tell anyone else about it. They still let us pretend like they don’t know what we’re doing back here.”  
  
Killian salutes, a wry smile tugging at his mouth and he has to switch arms to take the glass from David and keep touching Emma. Left arm. Left hand. She feels very drunk.

The feeling only grows after her first sip of the wine – definitely the best batch they’ve made, which probably isn’t a sign, but might be a sign and she’s certain she’s being warmed from the inside out, like she’s swallowed the goddamn sun at ten o’clock on Christmas Eve. It may or may not just be a direct result of Killian’s hand on the small of her back.

And David mumbles a few words, promises about _the best year_ and _the best town_ and Robin is morally obligated to make some cliché pun about _the best friends_ if only so Elsa and Anna will groan in tandem. Emma’s going to sprain the muscles in her face.

So, really, she can’t be blamed for her actions when, after her second cup of mulled wine, she twists against Killian’s chest, looks up and mumbles “you want to get some air?”  
  
He nods. “I’d love that.”

It’s chilly when they step outside, a nip in the air that doesn’t require them to stand as close as possible, but Emma’s not going to argue it, particularly when she starts directing them towards the harbor and the semi-permanent breeze coming off the water.

She inhales, letting the scent of salt fill her lungs and mix with the wine and the pie and the Reese’s Christmas trees and Killian's eyes don’t leave her once, staring at the side of her head with something that feels distinctly like want.

“What’s your favorite Christmas memory?” Emma asks suddenly, and Killian’s eyes widen at the question. “You asked for my most scathing Christmas opinion before. Let’s get positive.”  
  
She swaying slightly, less from the wine and more from the moment, Killian taking a step into her space until both his hands land on her hips. “Are you drunk?”  
  
“I had two glasses of wine.”  
  
“Not an answer.”  
  
The breeze gets stronger, more salt and a surplus of feeling and Emma knows they’re balancing on something – possibly each other. She shakes her head. “Not at all. What’s your favorite Christmas memory?”  
  
“I was...eight? Around there. And, uh...my mom was still there and my dad was still there and they were showing _It’s a Wonderful Life_ on TV. I was not interested at all, because I was eight and the movie was in black and white and I just wanted presents. But my mom was baking. She was in the kitchen and you know at the start when George goes to the dance?”

Emma nods, Killian’s tongue flashing between his lips when he takes a deep breath. “Well, George goes to the dance and Mary’s there and--”

“--The pool opens up.”  
  
“Exactly. But they dance. And I remember my dad going into the kitchen and, you know, he was mostly an asshole, but that was only after my mom was gone and he...he started dancing with her. Right there to the music on the TV and they got me and Liam to come in and it was a whole thing. Liam hated it at first. He was fifteen, way too cool for that.”  
  
“And you weren’t too cool?” Emma asks, desperate to keep her voice light.

Killian smirks at her. “Nah, I was eight. Plus, I realized rather quickly that’s how George got Mary to fall in love with him, so you know…”  
  
“That’s not true!”  
  
“What?”  
  
“That’s not true,” Emma repeats. “Mary loved George from the very beginning. When they were kids. She…” She trails off when she notices the look on Killian’s face, awe and surprise and something Emma absolutely can’t name because she’s not sure her heart can cope with that now. “Mary loved George the whole time. No matter what.”

Killian nods slowly, and Emma isn’t a science major either, but she’s certain the space between them disappears and time slows for a moment and they’re both swaying now. “Are we dancing?” she whispers, another nod and flash of a smile that feels as genuine as the pie recipe she’s fairly certain was his mother’s.

“I think so,” Killian says. They don’t say anything else for a moment, the sound of the ocean a not-so-quiet metronome that almost matches up with their breathing and Emma’s not sure what to do next, but she doesn’t want to move and--”That was the last Christmas we were all together,” Killian mutters. “She, uh...she got sick a couple months later and then my dad was gone like it was a magic act at Caesar’s and...Liam did his best, but…”  
  
“But?”  
  
“Harry Bailey was the younger brother, right?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Ah, well, in the Jones version of this, the older brother was the war hero and…there wasn’t a victory tour of whatever town they lived in.”  
  
“Bedford Falls,” Emma says.

“Why do you know that?”  
  
“I know everything.”  
  
He laughs, and the sound rattles down her spine, like it’s trying to connect to every one of her nerve endings. She feels him kiss the top of her hair when her head drops. “I’m starting to think you might,” Killian admits. “But, well, Liam was very responsible and he needed the money, so Navy as soon as he was eighteen and then I joined as soon as I was eighteen and it was good for awhile. Until it wasn’t and I don’t remember much of that either, but there were explosions and noise and he was gone and my hand was gone. A week before Christmas.”  
  
Emma blinks, the tears in her eyes absurd because it isn’t her story – but it feels kind of close to her story and they’re still dancing. “I’m glad you’re here,” she says again, because she can’t come up with anything else to say or anything else to do except kiss him, so she does that too.

Killian’s hands fly to her back, pulling her closer until her toes skim across the pavement. Her fingers dive into his hair, trying to keep him there or with her and the second one is only a little clingy for a relationship that isn’t that, but Emma is starting to think it might be that or could be that and she hopes.

She hopes more than...anything.

It’s different than it was the night before, not quite as charged or determined to prove something and that makes it even better. It’s want and need and settling into something, common ground and disappointment and Emma can taste chocolate and mulled wine on his tongue when she opens her mouth against him.

That makes it less simple.

She feels as if she’s been sparked, a rush of electricity through her veins and Killian groans when she pushes up further on her toes, letting her nails move over the back of his neck. And Emma’s not sure how it can seem as if he’s everywhere, but every inch of her appears to be combusting or on fire and they need to move.

Her shoulders are heaving by the time she pulls away from him, the blue in his gaze barely there. “We, uh…”  
  
“Yeah, ok.”  
  
They don’t run and it’s not quite brisk, but it’s not a walk either and the few feet that encompass downtown Storybrooke have never felt longer. Emma exhales when she clicks the lock of the B&B room open, taking a steady step in that makes her feel far more confident than she actually is. That lasts as long as it takes for Killian to spin her around, shoulders colliding with the now closed door and hips canting up and it’s a whole lot of words that Emma is hopeful she’d be able to come up with if her brain weren’t preoccupied with directing her hands towards Killian’s pants.

She’s not entirely sure how they move without inadvertently elbowing each other, but there’s something to be said for enthusiasm and laughing in the middle of all of this makes all of this seem even more...more.

Emma nearly takes out one of the nautical themed lamps when she kicks off her boots, drawing a laugh out of Killian. It turns into a groan when she pushes him towards the bed, knocking off pillows and blankets and the mattress creaks again. “If I get in trouble for breaking anything in here, I’m blaming you,” she warns, the threat feeling a little disingenuous when she’s trying to get his shirt off.

And he’s trying to unbuckle her pants.

They’re a tangle of limbs and the ends of Emma’s hair gets caught under his left shoulder blade at some point, but there are kisses too and smiles and every single one seems to join the trove of memories she’s hoarding in the back corner of her brain.

He’s stupid good looking.

Killian freezes when she, finally, does get his shirt off, eyes flitting towards the brace at the end of his hand. “Swan, I…” he starts, but she shakes her head and she can hear his jaw clack when he snaps it closed.

“I’m really glad you’re here.”

He smiles at her. “I wanted to be here.”  
  
And that’s not what does it, not really – they’re already naked for God's sake and Emma’s trying to pull a condom out of her wallet without ruining the mood, but that may be part of it and, eventually, she will ask him why he wanted. Her. Or this. Eventually. Maybe tomorrow.

She’s a little preoccupied when Killian pulls her back up, grinning from a small pile of pillows and that one, particular noise he makes as soon as she rocks her hips forward is better than anything Emma could have ever dreamed up. She’s glad it’s not a dream.

It’s later, moonlight streaming through gauzy curtains and wooden blinds and Emma’s head rests on Killian’s chest, fingers toying across the planes of his stomach. “Merry Christmas, love,” he whispers, squeezing her hand.

He doesn’t let go even when she falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The UNO game is based on very, very real life. My husband and I once sat next to each other during a family UNO game at Christmas (where so many people play we have to use multiple decks and there are long-standing alliances and everything) and things got so heated that the next day another family member pulled me aside to ask if everything was ok in our marriage. So. This all may be over the top Christmas fluff, but it's also a lot of my life. 
> 
> As always, thank you for every click, comment and kudos. You guys are the best. Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down.


	4. Chapter 4

“You’re going to knock me off the bed.”

Emma hums – or groans, she’s not entirely sure she’s completely awake – and she can hear laughter and something that sounds like the audible movement of a smile on a face she can’t actually see yet. She’s pressed up against Killian’s chest, her back to his front and an arm around her waist. There’s got to be hair in his face.

He doesn’t mention that.

“The bed, love,” he mutters, nosing at the side of her neck and even more hair and she should probably get a haircut. That’s the last thing she wants to think about in the moment.

She blinks, trying to make sure this is real and happening and she’s pretty positive it’s both, but she’s also not sure she’s ever actually been nuzzled before and that also feels like something that is currently happening.

She’s not wearing her own clothes.

She’s not wearing many clothes, if she wants to get technical, but the t-shirt she’s got on definitely isn’t hers, far too much fabric and a hole under her left arm and the NAVY emblazoned across the front had done something very particular to every single inch of her when Emma tugged it on the night before.

Or, well, a few hours before.

They hadn’t really gotten much sleep.

Killian is only wearing boxers – and possibly exuding heat, a human inferno that’s probably even more scientifically impossible than everything he’s done with his eyebrows in the last few days and how goddamn _fantastic_ he is at kissing Emma. There’d been a considerable amount of kissing in the last few hours.

Emma bites her lip, and she hasn’t opened her eyes for more than a few seconds, only a little terrified of what will happen if and when she does, as if the moment can’t possibly linger. Or has already lingered too long, testing fate and overstaying her welcome and she’s the world’s worst kind of pessimist.

He’s really, ridiculously good at kissing her.

It’s not fair.

It’s skewing with her entire perspective of the world. And it’s Christmas. Emma isn’t sure how that factors into whatever scientific equation she’s toying with, but she figures it should be part of it.

So she keeps her eyes closed, burrowing further under the questionable number of blankets they’d tugged back up off the floor and Killian’s still doing whatever to her neck, dragging his lips over her skin and a spot behind her ear that she did not know existed until that very moment.

“What are you doing?” Emma asks, far more breathless than she intended, but she can feel his teeth now and his fingers are doing something decidedly un-Christmas like against the curve of her hip.

“Trying to get you to move.”  
  
She tenses, feeling as if her throat has shrunk and at least one of her lungs has caved in. “What?”   
  
“You’re pushing me off the bed, love,” Killian mutters. There’s a hint of something on the edge of his voice, knowing and not quite placating, but possibly understanding and Emma’s lung reinflates.

That’s a disgusting thought.

She’s got no idea how her lungs operate.

Emma opens her eyes. There’s sunlight peeking into the room now, bright and only a little jarring, and half the pillows are still on the floor, a line of clothes from the door to the edge of the bed and she can only see one of her boots.

“Oh,” Emma mumbles. “Oh. Yeah, yeah, that’s, uh…”  
  
“You’re an orator in the morning, you know that?   
  
“Still not as funny as you think you are. You know you have to actually let go of me if I’m going to move. I don’t think I have that kind of upper body strength.”   
  
“I sincerely doubt that.”   
  
“Move your arm, Killian.”   
  
He doesn’t. And it feels like flirting and teasing and getting everything on her Christmas list. The last one is ridiculous.

This whole thing is ridiculous though and he was so _goddamn good at kissing her_. Emma likes to believe she was pretty good at kissing him too.

“See, that’s been my problem all morning,” he mutters, and Emma can still hear the smile. She feels it half a second later, his mouth moving back towards the bit of shoulder peeking out of his shirt and she briefly wonders how old it is.

She’s got far too many questions. She is bursting with questions and curiosity and want, a maelstrom of emotions and feelings that she’s hopeful she’ll temper at some point. Except maybe the want. That seems indefinite.

And that’s only a little terrifying.

“How long have you actually been awake?” Emma asks, trying without much success to move. It only ends with her hips twisting and Killian makes the world's most ridiculous noise. There’s a blanket twisted around her ankle.

There are far too many blankets in that room.

Emma absolutely cannot tell Granny that.

Maybe she’ll tell Ruby that.

No, she can’t tell Ruby about any of this.

This is a disaster.

And she’s either the world’s worst human – without any ability to control her breathing or very obvious emotions, even when she’s not facing her...whatever qualifier Killian may or may not be at this point, or he’s just exceptionally good at reading every shift in her and Emma’s around eighty-two percent positive it’s the second one.

“Hey,” he says, the edge of his chin pressing lightly into her shoulder blade. “You didn’t actually wake me up.”  
  
“Did the sun do that?”   
  
“You say that like it’s a joke, but…”   
  
“Oh my God, do you get up with the sun?”   
  
“Not if I can help it,” Killian admits. His hand is moving again, tracing patterns over the top of Emma’s thigh and drifting up towards her wait, which means he’s also drifting under the edge of her shirt and she’s starting to get a little distracted.

“But?”  
  
“But. Those old habits I was talking about are also current habits and even very expensive light-blocking curtains from Ikea do not always help.”   
  
Emma flips, somehow hitting both Killian and herself in the face with her hair and she’s only a little hopeful there’s a pack of hair ties in her bag. She’d been right about the smile – the ends of Killian’s mouth ticked up when she flops back onto the pillow and he’s got, approximately, one inch of space between him and the edge of the bed.

“You’re going to fall on the floor,” Emma says matter-of-factly, and only kind of because she’s trying to get him to laugh. It works.

“That’s what I’m saying! You’re a mattress hoarder.”  
  
“How much would you say you’re spending on curtains from Ikea? How much could curtains from Ikea possibly cost?”   
  
Killian shakes his head, or at least tries, still laying down and Emma’s teeth find her lower lip when he smirks at her. “You’re trying to make me forget you were getting violent in your sleep, love. It’s not going to work.”   
  
“You were the one who changed the subject in the first place.”   
  
“Did I?”   
  
Emma hums, propping her hand up on her hand. She resolutely ignores whatever is happening in the pit of her stomach – butterflies and those same, pesky feelings from before. “You did,” she promises. “Said you were dealing with problems. Was that happening in your mind?”   
  
“Well, you were asleep. Would have been rude to deal with things out loud.”   
  
“Oh, of course.” She bites her lip again when Killian doesn’t say anything else, just keeps staring at her like he’s surprised to find her there. “I’m sorry for nearly killing you on Christmas,” she murmurs. “That probably would have been pretty rude too. And, I...I’m not entirely used to sharing a bed, I guess.”

There’s more silence – far too quiet and quickly drifting close to oppressive and Emma squeezes one eye shut, as if that will help her save some kind of face. And she almost doesn’t see him move at first, so slow and measured and that does something to Emma’s stomach, makes it twist and turn and flip and flop, because he looks so incredibly careful around her, like he doesn’t want to overstep or make sure she doesn’t crack in half and she’s felt like she’s about to for a very long time.

He trails his fingers over her arm, letting the ends of her hair brush over his hand and Emma isn’t sure if she’s breathing. Probably not. It feels as if her lungs on her fire.

She should not be this aware of her lungs.

And she’s got no idea how long it lasts, but Killian seems slightly determined to map every inch of her and there’s definitely some kind of sailor pun in there, but that seems almost too on the nose for a room with so many nautical decorations.

“You didn’t nearly kill me on Christmas, Swan,” he says, which is probably the last thing Emma expects to hear. She smiles. “At worst I would have sustained a few broken bones.”  
  
“You think you could break your bones from a fall this short?”   
  
“Are you that confident in your familiarity with my bones?”   
  
“Oh my God.”

Killian flashes a smirk and his eyebrows twist, but he hasn’t moved his hand and Emma’s lungs are never going to recover. “That was clever, you have to admit.”  
  
“That was lazy.”   
  
“Oh, rough review.”   
  
“Why do you wake up at unnatural hours so often?”   
  
The smile doesn’t disappear, but it’s a close thing – seemingly stuck on Killian’s face and he licks his lips quickly, eyes flicking towards the minimal amount of mattress between them. Emma moves forward, nearly knocking her knee into his in the process and, really, this bed is not meant for two people. So, she gets creative. She hooks her leg over Killian’s and there’s a blanket in between her calves now and still knotted around her ankle, the one he’d been using falling around his hips.

His hand falls back to her side.

Magnets. And want. The smile doesn’t look quite as forced now.

“It’s not entirely unnatural,” Killian reasons, but Emma makes a face and she refuses to be held accountable for whatever sound she makes when he kisses the bridge of her nose. “Some people are required to get up that early, you know. Don’t you have to get up early for some skips?”

“Usually I haven’t actually gone to sleep yet.”  
  
“What?”   
  
Emma shrugs, not entirely prepared for the concern in his voice. “This is still a deflection. How much did you spend on curtains?”   
  
“Enough that I would rather you didn’t lord it over me for the rest of time. And the rest of the story is incredibly depressing.”   
  
“I promise I’m tough enough for it.”   
  
“Oh, I know you are,” Killian says. Emma probably needs a ventilator or something. “Me on the other hand…” He exhales, another kiss to her forehead and the hand on her hip moves to her back, pulling her against him until their legs tangle and they’re going to have remake the entire bed. “I was used to getting up early when I was a kid. School and sometimes work before school and then even earlier after I enlisted. So I think part of it is that, but part of it is not that.”   
  
“What is it?”   
  
He closes his eyes before he answers. “Nightmares sounds awfully juvenile, but it happens and it’s never really anything specific. Explosions and noise and everything had been so bright when it happened, which in retrospect seems like a giant joke. But I wake up and it always feels like I’ve been...blinded or something.”   
  
“Hence the blackout curtains,” Emma whispers.

“Exactly. Sometimes I can fall back asleep. It’s easier when it’s darker.”  
  
His lips quirk when he tries to shrug again – an impossibility when he’s on his side, but Emma appreciates the effort and that’s kind of been the theme for the last few days. She kisses his cheek, and she’s not sure why she lands there, but there’s a hint of a scar on his skin and just enough stubble that it rubs against her lips and she swears she can feel Killian’s muscles untense. She hopes; at least.

“You were warm,” she says, like that’s an even remotely acceptable counter to what he’s just told her. “At night, I mean. Like. It’s ridiculous how warm you are.”  
  
“Is that a compliment?”   
  
“That’s how it was supposed to sound. Did it not?”   
  
Killian makes a contradictory noise, and they’re very quickly getting distracted by kissing and hands and drifting touches. Emma doesn’t remember moving onto her back, but she’s not going to argue it when he’s shifting above her, resting his weight on the forearms that are on either side of her. “It sounded like a compliment,” Killian nods. “I didn’t want to move you.”   
  
“I’m glad you didn’t. Although it really would have sucked if we’d fallen off the bed.”   
  
He arches an eyebrow at that particular preposition, but doesn’t actually say anything and Emma’s grateful. For a lot more than that, but maybe especially for that and she’s still bursting with questions.

“Why’d you start writing?” she asks, his other eyebrow joining the first.

“How long have you been holding that one in?”  
  
“At least a day and a half.”   
  
“An impressive show of self-control.”   
  
“These are not answers.”

Killian chuckles, dropping back to Emma’s side. He keeps moving his hand though, the tips of his fingers grazing over her stomach and every available inch of skin – there’s quite a lot of skin. “Well, I told you about ISG,” he starts “I grew up in Lexington and--”  
  
“--Oh my God, is that why you’re a Revolutionary War nerd?”   
  
“I am not a Revolutionary War nerd.”   
  
“Please,” Emma argues. “Literally no one knows that stuff about Benedict Arnold. Do you secretly know a ton of stuff about...who was that famous Navy guy during the Revolution?”   
  
“John Paul Jones.”   
  
“See!”   
  
“That is common historical knowledge, Swan.”   
  
Emma scrunches her nose, shaking her head and she’d cross her arms if she wasn’t so busy touching Killian. “It’s not,” she guarantees. “No one knows that. Why didn’t you start with the Revolution, then?”   
  
“I’m getting there.” She sticks her tongue out, and the conversation deviates for a moment, kisses and more touches and roaming hands and one of them probably groans when Emma arches her back, but she honestly cannot figure out who it is. “You’re a distraction,” Killian mumbles, drawing a laugh out of her. “It was total luck, honestly. I’d grown up in Lexington and when I got hurt, I came back to the area and got a room in Boston and the guy I was renting from, he worked at a publishing house.”   
  
“Fortuitous.”   
  
“Good word.” Emma feels a little like she’s glowing. It’s absurd. Someone is going to knock on their door soon. “So, Scarlet works at the publishing house, is trying to move up the ladder so to speak and finds out I have a history degree. He makes, what he still regards is the best suggestion in the history of the world, and tells me I should find something historical to write about.”   
  
Emma blinks. “He used those exact words?”

“This is why he’s the publisher, not the writer. And I needed the money, so I agreed. Only I had to find something to write about. I started wandering around Boston, trying to find something, _anything_ that was even remotely interesting and I stumbled past ISG.”   
  
“And you knew? Just like that?”   
  
Killian shrugs, a self-deprecating move that probably isn’t supposed to be charming. “It’s a ridiculous museum. Nothing’s marked. You get a pamphlet and it’s like you’re walking through her house. I kept going back trying to find more and that’s how Ariel found me. She thought I was loitering.”   
  
“Of course she did.”   
  
“I promised I was not breaking any laws, just trying to do some research, she introduced me to Belle, who in turn was thrilled that someone was willing to give Isabella a second look and the rest, as they say, is history.”   
  
He grins at his own joke, ducking his head to kiss along Emma’s jaw when she groans. “Yeah, I’m sure they say something like that.”   
  
“Alright, if you get questions, then so do I, love. Why bonds work? It’s got to be dangerous.”   
  
“Are you suggesting bails bonds is not my dream job?”   
  
“Are you deflecting?”   
  
Emma sighs, the question far too certain and distractingly confident. “Possibly,” she admits. “Mostly because I don’t have an answer. It just kind of happened. And now I’ve been doing it for years and I’m good at it. But…”   
  
“But?”   
  
“But I’ve been thinking about taking the NYPD test.”   
  
She rushes over the words, the first time she’s said them out loud, and Killian’s answering smile makes her feel as if she’s just baked the perfect Millionaire’s pie. “When?”

“David said they were going to do it at the end of January. He only mentioned it because he was annoyed that people had been calling his line asking about it, which I think is a commentary on both the NYPD phone systems and the kind of people who are taking the initial exam, but--”  
  
“I think that gives you quite a leg up on the competition, love.”   
  
“Ah, we’ll see. I don’t know if I’m going to do it.”   
  
“Why not?”   
  
“I…” Emma mumbles, another exhale and flush of disappointment that settles at the base of her spine and threatens to drag her into the far-too-small for two people mattress. “I thought about doing it a ton of times, especially after David did, but I never signed up and then other things happened and--”   
  
“--You could do it, Swan,” Killian says when she trails off, an intensity in the words that makes Emma’s minimal breath catch.

She blinks, trying to believe the words or trust the words and it’s incredibly easy to do both. The whole thing has been so goddamn, incredibly easy. And, well, incredible.

She has no idea why he agreed to any of this.

“What’s your favorite movie?” Emma asks, and Killian’s eyebrows furrow in confusion. “It’s my turn for a question, right?”  
  
He beams. “ _Return of the Jedi_.”  
  
“Are you kidding me?”   
  
“Are you questioning my answer?”   
  
“No one picks _Return of the Jedi_. It’s always _Empire_.”   
  
“Well, that is fundamentally untrue because I just picked _Return of the Jedi._ ”

“The Ewoks are so annoying.”  
  
“They save everyone, Swan,” Killian says, and it does not sound like this is the first time he’s had this conversation. “Also it’s the dramatic conclusion. Luke goes full Jedi.”   
  
“As the name implies.”   
  
“Exactly. What’s your favorite Beatles song?”   
  
“Something.”   
  
“No, it’s not,” Killian shouts, and for as decidedly emotional a conversation as they’d been having it’s an incredible simple switch into laugher and something that feels dangerously close to joy. And cheer. Of the Christmas variety.

“I’m sorry, are you in my brain?” Emma balks. “That’s my answer and I am sticking with it.”  
  
“That makes no sense.”   
  
“It’s a good song!”   
  
“I’m not questioning that. Paul McCartney does not sing that song. Paul McCartney didn’t write that song.”   
  
“Are you trying to tell me that, or…”   
  
Killian rolls his eyes, and his whole head, hair falling dangerously close to his still twisted eyebrows and Emma is having far too much fun. “You listen to Wings! No one listens to Wings, how is Something you’re favorite Beatles song?”   
  
“You want to know my second favorite Beatles song?”   
  
“No.”   
  
“Really?”   
  
“No,” he says, but his voice wavers slightly and he might actually growl before he catches her lips with his. It’s not entirely bruising, but it’s certainly getting there, a quick grind of hips and Emma’s fingers carding through his hair and she’s mostly doing it to keep Killian as close to her as possible. “Ok, what’s your second favorite?”   
  
“I thought you didn’t want to know.”   
  
“Swan.”   
  
“Girl.”   
  
She laughs at whatever noise he makes, whole body shaking with the force of it and they, somehow, manage to knock even more pillows on the floor. It is a miracle they haven’t broken that one lap. “Swan,” Killian sighs. “That’s Lennon.”   
  
“These are all facts I’m aware of.”   
  
“Oh my God,” he mumbles, glancing at her with half his face buried against the side of a rogue blanket. “You’re a musical enigma.”   
  
“You know, when Frank Sinatra first heard Something, he said it was the greatest song McCartney and Lennon had ever written. Just assumed it was them.”   
  
“Poor George.”   
  
“Right? And then Eric Clapton went and stole his girl.” Killian scoffs, far too much of him touching far too much of Emma to be anything except decidedly distracting. “Alright, well by the rules of the game then I get two questions now--”   
  
“--How do you figure?”   
  
“Do you not want to answer my questions?” He kisses her. Emma figures that’s an answer. “Your favorite Beatles song and how you cheated at UNO yesterday.”   
  
“I did not cheat at UNO.”   
  
“Liar, liar--”   
  
“--My pants are...somewhere. Presumably not on fire.”

Emma laughs, twisting her face into Killian’s chest and breathing in like she’s trying to preserve that moment too. They really need to get out of bed.

He must have woken up so early.

“All My Loving.”  
  
Emma jerks her head up. “That’s McCartney.”   
  
“It is, in fact.”

“And not a single,” she continues, not sure if she’s arguing or checking for confirmation, but Killian is already humming the melody under his breath and she might just been swooning. Non-stop. For days.

She’s dizzy with it.

She’s laying down.

“Also true,” he says, pressing the words into the top of her hair when his lips there. Emma can’t make out the rest of the words at first, but it doesn’t take her long to pick up on the lyrics, which is fairly impressive considering the heartbeat that’s currently hammering in her ears. They stay there for a moment, Killian’s voice quiet as he moves across her temple and the side of her jaw and there are goosebumps everywhere, but Emma doesn’t move and doesn’t breathe and he knows all the lyrics to a ‘B’ side song.

She closes her eyes at some point, doing her best to acknowledge her possibly faulty lungs and make sure this feeling – certain and confident and _wanted_ lingers in her bones and her memories and in between the goosebumps.

“I stole some of Roland’s cards.”

Emma nearly cackles. And almost falls off the bed.

She moves quickly, pulling back to gape at Killian and he’s smiling, an arm around her waist to keep her off the floor.

“How?”  
  
“Well, he’s six,” Killian reasons. “And he got bored with the game eventually and was actually pretty good at the game, so he kept putting his cards down. They just didn’t always make it to the discard pile.”   
  
“How did we not notice that?”   
  
“I’m very good at slight of hand magic.”   
  
“Are you kidding me?”

He shakes his head seriously. The tips of his ears have gone red though. “Absolutely not. I was...fourteen? And I was living in some shit group home while Liam was away and I started toying around with stuff. They didn’t have much there, but they had a deck of cards. I’m very good at hiding cards up my sleeve.”  
  
“That is...insane.”   
  
“It helped a lot in UNO though.”   
  
“So, what...you were hiding Roland's discarded cards in your sleeve?”   
  
“Henry’s too, but he was harder to pick off. Mary Margaret would have been way too easy if she was sitting closer to me.”   
  
“You’re a card pirate,” Emma accuses, and Killian shrugs again. “The kids in that house, though? Were they impressed by your tricks?”   
  
“Not particularly, but I’d imagine that’s because the one Christmas I was there I more or less conned them all out of twenty bucks and ordered my own pizza for dinner.”

She is so stupid charmed by all of it. “Keep the change, ya filthy animal.”  
  
“How many Christmas movie quotes do you have available at your disposal, love?”   
  
“Far too many, if I’m being honest.”   
  
“Well, I’m very impressed by that.” Emma feels the blush on her cheeks before she can even try to school her features, tugging her lips back behind her teeth and--”What’s your favorite Christmas memory, then?” Killian asks.

She knows she should have expected the question and fair is only fair, after all – the unspoken rules of twenty questions sacred, even before coffee at whatever time it actually is – but the dread that lands in the pit of Emma’s stomach feels decidedly out of place.

Killian blinks. “Swan, you don’t have to--”  
  
“--I’ve never brought anyone home,” she interrupts sharply. He blinks again. “Like. Ever. And not entirely by choice.”   
  
“I don’t understand.”   
  
“So, uh...remember those other things from, like, point two seconds ago?”   
  
“The ones that made sure you didn’t take the NYPD exam?”   
  
“Yeah, his name was Neal Cassidy,” Emma says, and she’s pleasantly surprised to find Killian’s expression doesn’t change. “I’d been in New York for a couple of years and David was already on the force and I met Neal at a bar when I was trying to pick up a skip. It was all the clichés; he was nice and interesting and he bought me a drink after I came back in when the guy got taken to the closest precinct. It was good. I was very certain.”   
  
“But?”   
  
“But. He was always kind of...fidgety isn’t the right word. Ah, maybe it is. He was nervous about being out and doing stuff and it took forever for him to agree to come up here for Christmas.”   
  
“And he didn’t?”   
  
“No,” Emma whispers. “His fiancé found out he was dating me too and she didn’t think it’d be appropriate for him to drive to Maine. You know, all things considered.”

“God, what a fucking asshole.”  
  
Emma’s answering laugh is shaky at best and watery at worst. Killian’s hand is back on her hip. “Yeah, exactly that,” she agrees. “It almost gets better though. I still had to come home. It’s Christmas and there are, you know, rules and a schedule and, well, I ended up in Mary Margaret and David’s car because they wouldn’t let me drive alone and they let me claim their pie and before we did karaoke Granny pulled all of us back into the kitchen. She gave us shots of Jäger-- ”   
  
“--Jäger,” Killian repeats incredulously, and Emma’s cheeks are probably going to be pink for the rest of the day.

“Jäger. And we toasted moving on and getting over and she played A Wonderful Christmas Time.”  
  
“Before Born to Run?”   
  
Emma hums. “The first and only time.”

“I’m sure she thought it was worth it. Maybe not McCartney’s best work, but…” He smiles when she swats at his chest, the blanket still pooled around his waist and she’s not surprised when he catches her around the wrist, but it still makes her pulse jump and her heart thud and Emma lets out a slightly wobbly exhale when he brushes a kiss over her knuckles. “Still,” he continues. “Sounds nice.”  
  
“It was. They’re uh...well, overbearing and interfering, but I suppose their intentions are good.”   
  
“I think that’s obvious, love.”   
  
And she doesn’t say the rest – that she suddenly feels completely and utterly guilty at the thought of lying to them all, at what she’s going to do when this has to end or Killian goes back to Boston and Emma suddenly can’t picture a single Christmas in Storybrooke that doesn’t include his pie or their pie and those combinations of words don’t sound nearly as ridiculous as they’re supposed to.

They sound good.

They feel easy.

It doesn’t matter anyway. There’s a knock on the door.

“Emma,” Granny calls, and she squeezes her eyes closed again so she can’t see whatever look has settled on Killian’s face. Like the moment has been snatched away or thrown into the tundra or forgotten before a trip to Paris. “If you’re going to torture David this afternoon, you’ve got to eventually get out of bed.”  
  
That makes Killian’s expression change again. Emma clicks her tongue. “David is terrified of the heatmiser,” she mumbles, trying to get the blanket away from his ankle.

“And if you two don’t get downstairs, there’ll be no time to torment the poor young man.”  
  
“He is not young!”   
  
“You can’t tell him that if you don’t get out of bed.”   
  
“How can she possibly hear you?” Killian asks, not bothering to keep his voice down. There’s no point. God, maybe that’s why Granny gave him that room. Emma’s never going to leave.

“Years of experience,” Granny answers. She kicks at the door that time. “There’s coffee downstairs and more English muffins. Don’t eat too much.”  
  
Killian glances at Emma, amusement playing at the corners of his mouth and the whiplash of that morning is suddenly a little exhausting. “Are we supposed to eat two breakfasts?”   
  
“More like...four,” she shrugs, finally climbing out of bed and the floor is freezing. Killian’s tongue presses into the side of his cheek. “Shut up, not all of us just breathe heat.”   
  
“Is your breath frozen, love?”   
  
“Probably depends on who you ask.”   
  
Granny can absolutely hear them flirting. “Twenty minutes or I’m walking to the farm without either one of you,” she warns. “And then you won’t get any breakfast. Or lunch.”   
  
“There’s lunch too?” Killian balks.

Emma clicks her teeth. “Everything and then some. Fine,” she adds, directing the shout towards the still closed door. “But if you put those English muffins away before we get down there, then I’m going to tell everyone you bought your strawberry preserve off Amazon.”  
  
“I’ll tell Ruth to hide your stocking.”   
  
“Oh, that’s cheating.”   
  
“I don’t even know how to get on Amazon,” Granny argues. “Come up with better insults next time. Nineteen minutes now.”   
  
Emma sighs, but she can hear the footsteps retreating and Killian’s gaze is on her – the smile still there and the amusement almost palpable and maybe they are all, collectively, kind of charming. “Strawberry preserves, huh?” he mutters, moving to the edge of the bed so he can mumble the words into Emma’s stomach.

“Homemade.”  
  
“And a farm?”   
  
“You thought Regina and Robin’s house was something?” He nods, rumpling the shirt she’s wearing and considering keeping for posterity, but that would probably require them to acknowledge this and them and what happens after the clock strikes midnight. That’s more of a New Year’s Eve sentiment. “Wait until you see Ruth Nolan in her holiday element.”

He doesn’t gasp, but he does mutter _holy shit_ under his breath as soon as they turn the corner towards the Nolan farmhouse and, at some point on their walk across town, Emma’s hand had found Killian’s.

Or the other way around.

Whatever.

It’s Christmas.

That’s her excuse for everything from now on.

“You guys are missing all the fun here,” Elsa calls from the porch that wraps all the way around the house. It’s covered in greenery – which, in turn, is covered in ribbons and there are lights outlining every window. Killian’s still mumbling curses under his breath. That may be because of the snowmen in the front lawn, all of them sporting a variety of winter accessories and carrot noses and--  
  
“Do they come to life at some point?” he asks, bending his knees to make sure the words settle against Emma’s own hat.

“I don’t think Ruth is quite that powerful, actually.”  
  
“I find that incredibly difficult to believe.”

“This is just outside.”  
  
“How does she do this?”   
  
“Mr. Blanchard has been helping for as long as I can remember,” Emma says, and she can hear Henry and Roland shouting from inside already. “And Graham--did you meet Graham?”   
  
“Should I have?”   
  
Emma makes a dismissive noise. “You weren’t actually required to meet everyone, but Graham’s the sheriff and he helps because--”   
  
“--There’s a negative crime rate in Storybrooke,” David interrupts, joining Elsa on the porch. “You know he and Emma dated once. Also, could you guys have taken any longer to get here?”   
  
“Down your driveway?” Emma asks, trying to keep the conversation from returning to past dates and relationships that didn’t begin with lies. Killian squeezes her hand.

“Maybe I should have met Graham.”  
  
David practically crows in triumph, Elsa’s eyes widening and Emma cannot sigh enough when she sees her friend shout over her shoulder – likely to call Mary Margaret out to watch this whole show. “Are you out here because Roland and Henry are recreating the Heatmiser song?” Emma asks knowingly.

“No.”  
  
“Sounds an awful lot like a yes.”   
  
“It’s definitely a yes,” Elsa says, holding both her hands up in mock surrender when David makes a pained noise at her quick admission. “You told them you were going to hide their stockings. That’s just rude.”

The questionably large wreath on the door shakes when Mary Margaret twists around the frame. She’s got tinsel in her hair. Ruth doesn’t have the same opinion of tinsel as Regina does.

It’s probably a fire hazard.

“We’ve finished _The Year Without a Santa Claus_ ,” she announces. “So you can come back inside now David.”  
  
Emma cackles, pointing an incredibly judgmental finger into his chest. “You weren’t waiting for us. You were hiding out! From children! On Christmas!”   
  
“And threatening to hide their stockings,” Elsa repeats. “Also is the movie over or did Rol just decide it was boring when he and Henry weren’t tormenting David?”   
  
Mary Margaret shrugs. “A bit of column A, a bit of column B. But if you guys are going to quote _Santa Claus is Coming to Town_ then you better get back inside because that was the next one in the DVD case.”   
  
“There’s a DVD case?” Killian asks, met with three nodding heads as if it’s the most serious question in the world. Emma sighs.

“You remember those really weird, kind of tripy stop-motion Christmas specials? We used to watch them all the time when we were kids, mostly to make fun of them because we were the worst, but now they’re kind of nostalgic and Ruth bought a whole set a couple years ago.”  
  
“Emma can quote most of _Santa Claus is Coming to Town_ by heart,” Mary Margaret adds.

Killian tilts his head back to look at her – all blue eyes and something that feels like admiration, which is a little strange when dealing with a stop-motion cartoon from the 70s that also includes Fred Astaire, but they'd been on that dancing kick before so maybe it’s just part of the trend.

Anna almost knocks over David when she comes running towards them, a candy cane in her hand and her own tinsel crown on her head. “Wiggle my ears and tickle my toes, methinks I see a baby’s nose!”  
  
“This makes sense in context I promise,” Elsa says, when Killian, presumably makes a face of stunned confusion.

Anna doesn’t say anything, just looks expectantly at Emma. She sighs. “It’s more than a nose,” she quotes. “There’s a whole baby attached to it!”  
  
“Better call my brothers,” David continues. “Wingle, Thingle, Jingle..ah, shit what’s the last one?”   
  
“I think they repeat Dingle twice,” Mary Margaret says.

“Wouldn’t that get confusing?”  
  
“And why didn’t Tanta Kringle’s name rhyme with the rest of them?” Elsa asks.

“Why was she the only girl?” Anna challenges. “Why did she disappear when Kris and Jessica moved into the North Pole?”  
  
Emma tilts her head. “Are you suggesting Kris Kringle and his wife did Tanta Kringle in?”   
  
“I’ve got evidence to back it up.”   
  
“What kind of movie is this?” Killian asks, but he also sounds genuinely interested and that also seems to be a trend.

“A 30-minute masterpiece,” Emma says. “Wait until we get to the super tripy song Jessica sings. It’s my favorite part.”  
  
“Should I be aware of who Jessica is?”   
  
“You’ve really never seen this before?”

Killian shakes his head, eyes widening when Anna reaches forward to yank on the front of his jacket. “Don’t worry, we’ll fix that right now. This will indoctrinate you even more than the wine last night, honestly.”  
  
“See, now we sound like we’re in a cult,” David groans, but Ruth is shouting about _letting all the heat out_ and _does Emma want frosting on her cinnamon rolls_ and the whole lot of them shout _extra_ at the same time.

Killian’s eyes get even wider. Emma grits her teeth. “I really like frosting on my cinnamon rolls.”

“She’s a dental marvel,” Elsa mutters.

And it shouldn’t feel like coming full circle, but it does anyway and the Island of Misfit Toys is kind of nice. There’s no King Moonracer. They’ve got tinsel crows, though, so it seems like a wash. Emma needs a tinsel crown.

“Absolutely,” Killian agrees, letting go of Emma’s hand to sling his arm over her shoulders and Ruth is holding a tray of cinnamon rolls when she appears in front of them.

“Yours are on the left, Emma,” she says. The three rolls there appear to be covered in their own container of frosting. “And your presence is being demanded by two very enthusiastic children on the couch. And Merry Christmas.”  
  
“Merry Christmas, Ruth,” Emma mumbles. The wreath doesn’t fall off the door when Killian closes the door behind her.

They sing Jessica’s song as some kind of makeshift choir – far too many of them on Ruth’s couch and Emma’s legs, somehow, wind up draped over Killian’s with Roland’s pressed against her back, but it’s almost comfortable anyway and it would be worth it no matter what because Killian’s expression while Anna announces her theory regarding the fate of Tanta Kringle is that good. He nearly chokes when Anna proclaims, “They totally ate her.”

“Oh my God, Anna,” Elsa shouts, and Robin nearly slides off his spot in the rocking chair. Regina is perched on his legs – that may be the only reason he doesn’t.

“It makes perfect sense,” Anna presses, undeterred by her sister’s protests and her boyfriend's stunned silence. Kristoff looks a little overwhelmed.

Killian’s drawing patterns along the ridge of Emma’s spine.

“It makes no sense at all,” Regina argues. “Why would they eat Tanta?”  
  
“Where were they getting food in the North Pole? There’s nothing up there. The other Kringles are there later, but Tanta is nowhere to be seen.”   
  
“The Kringles lived in the North Pole for years,” Mary Margaret says, as if that’s a reasonable response to the single most absurd question in the world. Roland appears to have fallen asleep.

“She’s saying there’s no possible way the Kringles were undercover cannibals,” David adds.

Regina makes a less-than-dignified noise, Anna throwing her hands up and Emma has to bury her face into Killian’s shoulder to make sure she doesn’t laugh too loudly. She doesn’t want to wake Roland up.

“I’m not saying they were cannibals the whole time,” Anna argues. “Just...you know maybe things got a little tight while Kris was delivering presents every night and they were operating at at a deficit and--”  
  
“--You’ve put way too much thought into this,” Robin mumbles.

“And in a night of disappointment and staring at the books and wondering how they were going to feed all those goddamn elves, Kris and Jessica decided to take drastic measures and Tanta had to be sacrificed for the greater good.”  
  
“God bless us, everyone,” David intones.

“Yes, exactly that! You don’t think Tiny Tim would have done that?”  
  
“This is getting incredibly dark,” Elsa says. “And that’s even more untrue because the Cratchits were legitimately starving and none of them were willing to eat Tiny Tim.”

Emma’s body is shaking, laughter and absurdities and a slightly macabre festivity that’s festive all the same – particularly when Killian kisses the top of her head. “For what it’s worth,” she mutters. “This is the first time any of us have discussed cannibalism on Christmas Day.”  
  
“Ah, well, I’m glad to be a part of that then,” Killian says, and Emma doesn’t miss the _look_ Regina casts her direction.

She’s not sure what she’s going to say, but she’s fairly certain she’s supposed to say something and she knows they can’t disappear again, which limits her choices and--”If you lot are finished discussing whatever it is you’re discussing, there are cookies and stockings,” Ruth announces.

“There’s more food?” Killian asks softly. Emma nods.

“There is always more food.”

Ruth made her snickerdoodles, another tradition that had been going on for as long as Emma could remember and she’s got two in one hand when she jumps onto the kitchen counter like she’s thirteen again. Killian grins when she bumps her leg against his arm.

And the whole stocking thing had been a _thing_ before Emma got to Storybrooke, but they’d bought her one of her own that first Christmas and it was still the same one because Ruth was the kind of person who gave everyone the same stocking every year and Emma was glad to be sitting down when the slightly worn piece of felt landed in her lap.

It didn’t just have her name on it.

“I would have gotten Killian one,” Ruth tells her, “but we didn’t know you were bringing someone special home until you got here, so--”  
  
“--It’s fine,” Emma cuts in, voice shaking despite pleas to every religious figure she’s aware of to ensure the opposite. That feels unfair on Christmas. ‘It’s…” She huffs, blinking back tears and Killian’s hand find hers when her fingers start to shake.

“Thank you,” he says.

Ruth smiles. “Merry Christmas to both of you.”

When they were kids, stockings at Ruth’s were always kind of a letdown from the rest of the presents. It meant Christmas was over and no kid actually wants an orange, but as Emma got older and the traditions got more traditional, the stockings took on a slightly different meaning.

It still meant Christmas was almost over, but the little knick knacks felt more personalized, tiny things that Ruth collected throughout the year and made her think of all of them.

God, Emma is totally crying.

“Are there more Reese’s trees in here, you think?” Killian asks, shaking her out of her revery and working a quiet laugh out of her.

“Probably a whole container, honestly.”  
  
“Let’s see what else we’ve got.”   
  
“Ok.”

He pulls everything out one by one, resting them on the counter next to her and handing Emma the first tree he finds, lips twitching when she rips open the plastic immediately. “It’s like you’ve found previously undiscovered gold,” he murmurs.

“I think you’re just angry I’m not sharing with you.”  
  
“Ah, that might be it too.” There’s not much left – more candy and a few candy canes, Killian taking one of those for himself, but the last thing is the most important thing and Emma breathes _oh_ as soon as she realizes what it is.

She’s got no idea where Ruth found it, probably one of those flea markets she likes to go to on weekends in the fall – a tiny cross-stitch of colors and letters and _George lassos the moon_ is obvious even through the tears Emma can’t quite contain.

Killian laughs, half to himself and, possibly, half to the world and his thumb catches a tear when it falls on Emma’s cheek. “She loved George the whole time, huh?”

“I always thought so.”  
  
“Romantic.”   
  
“Misplaced optimism.”   
  
“I don’t think so,” Killian objects, a quick head shake and the grip he has on that tiny, little trinket makes Emma’s heart sputter in her chest. She can’t believe the next few words out of her mouth, even as she’s saying them, but she means them and wants them and--

“You should keep that,” she whispers. “I...well, it’s...that’s kind of your movie.”  
  
“I’m not sure Frank Capra’s descendants would agree with that, love.”   
  
“You’re getting particular. And, plus, it’s half your stocking too.” She moves forward, barely sitting on the counter with her legs wide enough apart that Killian can move into the open space and Emma’s fingers find his hair like she’s been doing it forever. “Merry Christmas, Killian.”   
  
He puts the tiny thing in his back pocket, half a smile and a flash of feeling and Emma is convinced he’s going to kiss her – right there in the middle of Ruth’s kitchen, but there are other people around and dinner to eat eventually because there’s always more food and--   
  
“It’s snowing,” Henry yells, pointing excitedly to the window and then means, exactly, one thing.

“Oh, damn, “ Emma mumbles. Killian lifts his eyebrows. “Just wait.”  
  
“Well, you all know what that means,” David announces, already standing and tugging Mary Margaret along with him. “Hope you all brought your center of balance.”

“David, you have fallen more than any of us combined,” Elsa points out. Emma can almost see the light go on above Killian’s head.

“Ice skating?”  
  
Emma nods. “Without skates.”

The whole absurd, over-planned, decidedly ridiculous schedule is worth it as soon as David steps onto the ice on the pond behind the house – and promptly falls over. Elsa throws her whole head back when she laughs, gliding with practiced ease, even in sneakers and there hadn’t been enough skates when they were kids, so they improvised.

Mary Margaret and Anna are twirling a few feet away, Regina trying to explain to Robin that she’s _not getting on that death trap_ , but Henry and Roland are already sliding on their knees and Killian’s staring at Emma incredulously.

“You don’t have to do this,” she says.

“Do you want to?”  
  
“I’m very good at it, actually.”   
  
“Yeah?”   
  
“Are you doubting that?”   
  
“I don’t doubt anything when it comes to you, Swan,” Killian grins, and it feels like a promise and sounds like a guarantee and Emma gasps when he tugs her onto the ice. They don’t fall over. They wobble a little, but Killian gets his bearings relatively quickly and there are stolen kisses and a few whistles from both David and Robin, but it’s nice and better than nice and Emma wishes she was better prepared for it all to come crashing down around her.

She hears the car before she sees it, tires crunching on freshly fallen snow and the door slamming shut sounds impossibly loud. They’ve all frozen, flakes of white in their hair and Emma closes her eyes.

She doesn’t want to see.

She doesn’t want to be seen.

It doesn’t matter.

“Guess who came back early,” Ruby yells, jogging around the corner with her hand wrapped up in Belle’s. “Aw, you guys are skating already?”  
  
“It’s snowing,” David says, as if that explains that. It totally does.

“Did you do stockings already?”  
  
“You’re supposed to be on your honeymoon,” Mary Margaret says.

Ruby waves a dismissive hand. “We couldn't miss all of Christmas. It’s a surprise. Aren’t you surprised, M’s, we planned it that--”

She cuts herself off and Emma can feel the eyes boring into her, the surprise in the air taking a sudden and rather drastic shift. “Jones?” Ruby asks at the same time Belle mutters “Killian, what are you doing here?”  
  
“You’re not the first surprise we’ve encountered in the last few days,” David mutters.

“I don’t…” Ruby starts, shaking her head as if this is a dream she’s suddenly walked into. “But you guys don’t even know each other, do you? How did this happen? Oh my God did you hook up at the wedding? Oh my God, Em!”  
  
“No,” Emma hisses. It doesn’t slow Ruby down. She’s still talking a mile a minute and it’s not particularly sunny, but the light seems to be radiating off her recently acquired ring like it's personally trying to taunt Emma.

“What do you mean they don’t really know each other?” Mary Margaret asks. Ruby stops talking so quickly, Emma is momentarily stunned there isn’t some kind of brake-like screech involved.

“What?”  
  
“They totally know each other.”   
  
“How much mulled wine have you had in the last forty-eight hours?”   
  
Mary Margaret clicks her tongue. “Emma said…”   
  
“Emma said what?”   
  
“Nothing,” Emma growls, and she can’t stomp her foot the way she wants to when she’s standing in the middle of a frozen pond. She already feels as if she’s fallen through the ice.

Ruby’s mouth twitches. “You said nothing? Weren’t you two dancing at the wedding?”  
  
“Why were you watching that?”

“I was worried about you. You made that speech and you looked like you were going to kill the bartender and--”  
  
“--Oh my God,” Emma groans. “I was not going to kill the bartender. You guys all need some boundaries.”   
  
It’s the last thing she plans to say, the words flying out of her mouth without her permission and enough acid that she has to glance down at the ice to make sure it hasn’t, in fact, melted. Ruby scoffs. Mary Margaret may whimper.

“You guys were around each other for a good chunk of that night,” Elsa reasons, Anna humming in agreement. “But not earlier.”  
  
Emma rolls her eyes. “You all should be PIs. Maybe David can get you some adjunct work.”   
  
None of them look impressed. Killian hasn’t moved. His hand is still on Emma’s back.

“Em,” Ruby says slowly, and it feels like _that_ Christmas and explaining what happened and she’d tried to lie then too. It hadn’t worked. This feels worse.

This feels like...being stuck outside or eaten by questionably animated elves and she’d let herself believe far too much in the last few days. The hand on her back suddenly feels impossibly heavy.

“Still here,” Emma mumbles. Ruby lips shift again.

“What did you tell M’s?”  
  
The question feels like it hangs there for a moment – flashing and taunting and there’s probably some kind of metaphorical air horn involved, just to explain the migraine Emma can feel blooming at the base of her skull.

“Swan,” Killian mutters, but she shakes her head. That doesn’t help her migraine.

“I think the jig is up.”

And those words hurt too, Emma’s refusal to look at him when she says them the ultimate form of cowardice. She bites the side of her tongue, the taste of blood flooding her mouth and her vision is swimming in front of her, tears for a decidedly different reason than earlier and she can barely hear Belle whisper _be patient_ when Ruby starts tapping her foot.

“I told Mary Margaret that Killian and I had gone out before,” Emma says, staring at her feet. One of her socks is wet. She feels like she deserves that. “She was trying to get me to dance or acknowledge...I don’t know, love and feeling and--”  
  
“--And you straight up lied?” Ruby asks. Belle clicks her tongue in reproach. “Well, it’s true.”   
  
“No, no, it is,” Emma whispers. “Or was. I...I don’t know, it just kind of happened, but then everyone kept asking if I was going to bring someone home and-- I don’t know, there was wine involved.”   
  
“You never went out with Jones though.”   
  
“Yes, that was the previously discussed lie.”   
  
“But you decided to ask him to come home with you for Christmas?”   
  
“As a contingency plan.”   
  
Killian’s hand falls back to his side. It’s louder than the car was. Or Emma’s pulse. She’s not sure her heart is actively doing anything at this point anyway.

Ruby lets out a low whistle. “Merry Christmas.”  
  
“Ok,” Emma groans. “C’mon.”   
  
“I am incredibly confused,” Belle admits. “So you guys...what? Reconnected with all the dancing--”

“--And flirting,” David mumbles.

“Ignore that. But, also, kind of. And you come up here and then…”  
  
“Mary Margaret thought we’d already broken up once,” Emma shrugs, an absurd movement when she kind of feels like tiny, little pieces of her are falling off her body. It’s an incredibly melodramatic thought. “So she wouldn’t be entirely surprised when we did break up. You know, again. It wasn’t real to begin with.”

She feels as if she’s just been punched in the gut. By herself. And her friends. And the general feeling of holiday cheer.

Emma chews on her lips, regretting the words as soon as they’re out of her mouth because the whole thing has almost felt too real and she still can’t look at Killian.

This was a mistake.

“Right” Belle says. “A fake break-up to a relationship that never really happened.”  
  
Emma hums, a wry smile on her face and disappointment churning in her gut. “You two are supposed to be on your honeymoon.”   
  
“We didn’t want to miss Christmas.”   
  
“Did you think Mary Margaret wouldn’t say anything about you and Jones?” Ruby asks, and Emma can’t miss that edge in her voice. “She can’t keep a secret to save her life.”   
  
“I am standing right here,” Mary Margaret sighs. She gets another dismissive hand wave for her troubles.

“I don’t know,” Emma admits. “I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”  
  
“Right,” Ruby nods. “Well, that is...insane. That’s insane. Jones, why did you agree to that?”   
  
Emma nearly falls over. David does, in fact, fall over. Someone mumbles _goddamn_ under their breath. It sounds like Regina.

“That’s not any of your business, Lucas,” Killian says, calm and even and Emma’s eyes are going to fall out. They’ll probably freeze on the ice. She figures she deserves that too.

He looks back at her, shoulders shifting with the force of his inhale and everything kind of feels like it’s spinning when he licks his lips. He tilts his head, expression unreadable except for the disappointment Emma is certain she can feel her soul and taste on her tongue and it’s bitter with the little bit of blood still there.

That’s the least festive thing she’s ever thought.

“I didn’t think it was an insane plan,” he whispers. There are tears on Emma’s cheeks again. She wishes that would stop happening. “But it, uh...may be time to…”  
  
The feeling in her stomach grows until it’s a hole and there’s wind and it’s freezing and Emma nods slowly. “Yeah, it might be. You…” She grits her teeth, hissing in a breath of air and Killian doesn’t blink. He doesn’t move his hand again, but he doesn’t blink. “Do you want to get out of here?”   
  
“Swan.”   
  
“Honestly.”   
  
There are a few more shouts of her name – promises that she _doesn’t have to do that_ and _we’ll go get Granny, seriously_ , but Emma doesn’t waver, just lifts her eyebrows and waits. Killian nods. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

They come up with some excuse, another lie and it makes Emma feel like even more of an asshole than she already is. Granny doesn’t question it. That’s even worse.

Mary Margaret apologizes. Ruth gives them a plate of cookies. For the road. Ruby keeps staring, narrow eyes and crossed arms, even after Belle tries to tug them apart. Elsa chews on her lip. For, like, a solid five minutes straight. That must be a record.

And it’s still snowing by the time Killian tosses their bags in the backseat of her car, both of them moving on sudden and cautious eggshells, twisting around each other like they hadn’t slept without any clothing on the night before.

“You ready?” Emma asks.

Another nod. “Yup.”  
  
She comes up with, at least, five million things to say – what she wants and what she feels and what she hopes for several Christmases from now, but every word dies on the tip of Emma’s tongue before she can say them. They make it back to his apartment in just over two hours of prolonged and nearly painful silence and Emma’s car skids on a patch of ice when she stops.

“Shit,” she breathes, running a hand over her face and her eyes feel like they’re burning. She can’t remember the last time she blinked. “I’m sorry.”  
It’s not an apology for the state of the roads in Back Bay.

Killian knows that. “You don’t have anything to apologize for, Swan.”

“I just...this all kind of blew up. And I should have expected it and realized it wouldn't work and--”  
  
“--What?”

“What do you mean what?”  
  
“What about it didn’t work?” Killian asks, genuine confusion and something that sounds like frustration in his voice.

“Well...we weren’t really dating?”  
  
It comes out like a question, which, all things considered is pretty goddamn disappointing, but Emma’s feeling pretty goddamn unsure of herself and that’s not fair to either one of them. She has never hated anything more than Killian’s eyebrows.

That may be the worst lie she’s told yet.

“Right,” he says. “Right. Right. Ok. That’s...no, you know what, no. Is that what you think happened?”  
  
“I don’t understand the question. We made it all up.”   
  
“I didn’t make anything up. Did you? Anything you told me, did you make that up?”

Emma’s seatbelt feels impossibly tight. She shakes her head. “No.”  
  
“Then I don’t see the problem here.”   
  
“This started on a lie! The whole thing was a...way to get my family off my back. And you went...above and beyond--”   
  
“--Above and beyond?” Killian shouts, gaze turning hard as soon as the words are out of his mouth. “Are you kidding me, Swan?”   
  
She must be, because she can’t rationalize the words that are coming out of her mouth. None of them are true. She doesn’t want them. She hates them. She wishes it were that morning. And she can’t seem to stop herself.

Because Emma Swan never brought anyone else home for Christmas and she’s not sure what she’ll do if that happens again.

So she pushes and she presses and she lies; again. To make sure it doesn’t blow up in her face. Again.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” Emma whispers, and she hates how soft her voice sounds. “It was…”  
  
“Right.”   
  
“Don’t--”   
  
Killian shakes his head, effectively cutting her off. “Thanks for driving me home.”   
  
“Thanks for coming home.”   
  
And for half a second Emma thinks that’s it, she thinks he’s going to get out of the car and it’ll be over and she’s got no idea how she’s going to drive back to the city, but then he leans across the gear shift and kisses her cheek and--”You’ve still got my number, right?”   
  
“Yeah.”   
  
“Ok, good.”   
  
She counts to twenty before she pulls away and by the time Emma crosses the RFK Bridge it’s stopped snowing. She figures that means Christmas is over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \\_(ツ)_/  
> Please don't yell too loudly. You guys know me. I love love and I love fluff and we'll get back to that real soon, but it was a ridiculous plan and it all had to blow up eventually. As always, I can't thank you guys enough for every click, comment and kudos. It's real nice. 
> 
> Come flail (and maybe only shout a little) on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down.


	5. Chapter 5

She doesn’t call him.

She thinks about it. She considers it. She does...not much else for the next few days.

Emma stares at her phone and stares at the number in her phone and the text message conversation that sparked this whole goddamn, stupid thing because that’s exactly what it is. It’s stupid. It’s ridiculous and a little juvenile and decidedly immature because she knows she’s running away, but she’s also very good at running away and it’s not like he’s called her.

She rationalizes that particular point at four in the morning three days after Christmas, while she’s parked in her car in Astoria and, at that point, it feels like the most important thing in the world. It becomes less important forty-five minutes later when Emma’s heat is starting to sputter and her fingers are starting to take on a distinct blue-type hue and she’s typed and deleted the same message sixteen times.

On the fifth day she actually uses the system at work to try to track down Will Scarlet’s personal contact information because some absolutely _insane_ part of her brain thinks that’s the best approach, but August walks in on her and--

“What the hell are you doing in here?”

“I work here,” Emma replies cooly, not looking up from the computer screen and that computer must be nearly thirty years old.

“What time did you get home last night?”  
  
“I don’t see how that’s your problem.”  
  
“Emma.”  
  
“Booth.”  
  
August shakes his head, the floor creaking under his feet when he moves further into the office and that should probably be a sign to both of them that they should be looking for another office. Emma is only a little worried the computer in front of her is going to explode.

“Emma,” August repeats, covering the screen with his palm. She groans.

“You’re going to get handprints all over there.”  
  
“We’ve got Windex somewhere.”  
  
“Can you use Windex on a computer?”  
  
August shrugs. “It’s like a TV right? God, I don’t care. That’s not important. What the hell are you doing here? If you’re going to try and get that Heller guy, you cannot be here today. It’s against the rules.”  
  
“Since when are you one for the rules?”  
  
“Ok, well, that’s rude. What’s going on with you?”  
  
“Nothing,” Emma lies, and the word feels heavy on her tongue. It feels like it’s settled into her soul too, a constant source of cold and disappointment and she should have just called him. They shouldn’t have left Storybrooke.

She’s considered driving to Boston more than once.

“You going to make a New Year’s resolution to become a better liar?” August asks, finally  moving his hand and he’s not even remotely intimidated by Emma’s glare. “I’m serious about the overtime. If you’re clocking this, I’m not paying.”  
  
“You’re a benevolent leader, Booth.”  
  
“I’m being honest with you. See how that works?”

“And about as subtle as a pound of bricks.”  
  
“Occasionally that’s what it takes to get through to you,” August grins. Emma makes an incredibly unprofessional noise, widening her eyes and opening her arms like that will make her boss contradict himself. It only makes him laugh.

And she couldn’t find anything about Will Scarlet except the fact that he graduated from UMass Amherst and was part of the same frat she’s, like, seventy-two percent certain Robin was in.

That’s not really a lead though and Emma is usually better at this.

She refuses to acknowledge all the reasons she’s currently not.

“Wait, did you say that Heller guy?” Emma asks suddenly, like her brain has finally caught up to the conversation that will, actually, pay her. August nods.  
  
“Reportedly spotted in Mott Haven.”  
  
“Ah, the Bronx? C’mon, that traffic is going to suck.”  
  
“‘Tis the season for bums to try and run out on their bail and their families.”  
  
“God, that’s the most depressing thing I’ve ever heard.”  
  
August shrugs again, undeterred by depressing or anything that doesn’t immediately lead to a paycheck. “Someone I know up there saw him over by the St. Mary’s Dog Run.”  
  
“The Dog Run?”  
  
If August shrugs again, Emma is going to throw the computer at him. Then they’ll have to get a new one. August will make her pay for a new one. “What do you want me to tell you, Emma? This Heller guy is a dick. He’s hanging out in Mott Haven, apparently, I guess his girl’s got a thing for dogs.”  
  
“Did you swallow a 1940s gangster?”  
  
“You want to go up there tonight or you want to keep making quips that only you think are funny?”  
  
“Is that honestly a choice?” Emma asks, clicking a few more buttons and there’s seriously nothing about Will Scarlet on the internet. Her phone is still frustratingly silent.

And maybe she’s a little upset about that too – because Mary Margaret and David got back to the city two days ago and Ruby is supposed to be back tonight and they’ve all apologized and checked on her and double checked for good measure, but that’s as much contact as Emma’s had and the whole thing has left her feeling decidedly empty and even more lonely and she can’t seem to get warm.

The sentiment of it all feels far too heavy handed. Even in her own head.

“No,” August answers. “Unless you want me to find someone else to do your job for you.”  
  
Emma groans, rolling her eyes and clicking again – shutting down the computer and grabbing her phone and her keys and she’s fairly positive the heat in her car is getting worse.

And she hadn’t been wrong about traffic. It takes her forever to get up the FDR and the Willis Avenue Bridge is inexplicably closed, so she has to drive up to Third Avenue and that’s an extra forty minutes she wasn’t planning on. Because those extra forty minutes are just enough time to come up with all the reasons she should not want to date Killian Jones.

Still.

Or start. Whatever tense is appropriate.

Emma parks outside the dog run, tilting her seat back and doing her best to get comfortable, but that’s a losing battle from the get-go. She left her gloves in the office.

“Damn,” she mumbles, scrolling through her phone and wondering if she can find somewhere to get coffee without possibly missing this guy. She doesn’t get out of her car.

She types sixteen text messages instead.

She deletes them all.

And the hours continue to creep by, voices on the street because it’s not New Year’s Eve yet, but that’s tomorrow and Emma assumes there are still people out there who feel festive. Not her, but she’s sure they exist.

Her eyes are starting to flutter around two in the morning, a blanket she forgot was in the backseat wrapped around her shoulders, when she spots him. Or, at least, thinks she spots him. He’s not more than a shadow, a flash of a face that just looks like an _asshole_ and Emma’s barely able to get out of the car without tripping over her own feet.

Eventually she will assume that was also some kind of sign.

It’s an absolute miracle she’s missed all of the signs.

“Hey,” she shouts, and the guy doesn’t slow down. He glances over his shoulder, just enough light at the end of the block to see his eyes widen, and then breaks out a dead sprint, nearly knocking over three different people in the process. “Aw, goodman, shit, fu--” Emma grumbles, and she doesn’t actually lock her car before she starts running after him.

She needs to get a better car.

She needs to get...better, but that’s neither here nor there and Emma can’t ponder life’s great meanings when she’s trying to chase down one of life’s great dicks. It doesn’t take long to get within lunging distance, but that’s kind of a last resort thing and Emma’s side is already aching.

Heller runs over another person on the sidewalk.

“Oh my God, you know you can go around them,” Emma calls. That’s a mistake. It hurts to yell and the air is cold and it feels like it may snow again and--

“--Or you could just stop chasing after me,” Heller counters. He jerks to his left, darting down an alley and something in the back of Emma’s brain starts at that. He’s backing himself into a corner. Maybe she’ll do something to her car with her inevitable paycheck.

Maybe she’ll use it to drive to Boston.  
  
Probably not.

She’s an absolute disaster.

That will also, eventually, be her downfall – quite literally.

Emma chases him into the alley, barely keeping her balance as she rounds the corner and Heller chuckles when he clears the fence at the back. “What the hell do you think you’re doing here?” he asks.

“Is that not obvious? What kind of ass blows his bail the day before New Year’s Eve?”  
  
“Am I messing up your plans?”  
  
“You’re helping, actually.”  
  
“Yeah? Big ideas for the holiday?”  
  
“Are we bantering when I’m honestly getting ready to bring you back to the cops?” Emma asks, and Heller grins at her. It makes her nauseous. That may just be the running.

“That seems to suggest I’m going anywhere with you. Or that you’re going anywhere.”  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“You got a look about you, don’t you?”  
  
Emma gags, complete with a stuck-out-tongue, but that only makes Heller laugh and his confidence is unnerving. “What exactly is it you did?” she asks, jogging towards the chain-link fence and trying, rather fruitlessly, to find a foothold. It hasn’t snowed yet, but it had been raining before and cold and everything feels like it’s covered in a thin sheet of ice.

Emma included.

“Forgery,” Heller answers, as if that’s not a crime. “Pretty much anything I could get some ink on. Books, money, important documents.”  
  
“You’re a busy guy.”  
  
He hums, that same, infuriating smile plastered on his face. “Sometimes. Which is why, unfortunately, I won’t be able to go downtown with you tonight or whatever overused cliché you’d like to pick. I’ve got a previous engagement. And plans for the New Year. I’m sorry to disappoint.”  
  
“I’m not sure that you have, actually.”

Emma jumps at the same time Heller laughs, twisting her fingers around the fence and maybe Killian was right – maybe she does have fairly good upper body strength. That, however, only serves to make her think about Killian and her distinct lack of New Year’s Eve plans because there’d been no engagement in Storybrooke and Emma’s got some pretty strong suspicions about David and Mary Margaret and--

Her right foot slips.

She scrambles for purchase, trying to find to find, something, _anything_ to hold onto and the irony of that is not lost on Emma. She hates it, but she’s willing to acknowledge it, even as she’s crashing a few feet onto the incredibly unforgiving ground underneath her.

Emma doesn’t quite scream when her ankle turns underneath her, the actual _crack_ of it echoing in her ears and her soul, but she might whimper and that is, somehow, ten-thousand times worse.

The tears burn her eyes immediately, a biological reaction that feels particularly weak in the situation, and she grits her teeth to stop herself from making any other noise. The blood rushes from her head, trying to get to the ankle that she’s only a little worried is actually broken and everything feels cold and spins and it’s as if her stomach has leapt into the back of her throat.

Emma gags again, bringing her hand to her mouth like that’ll help. It only proves how goddamn cold her hand is.

She really needs gloves.

“Holy shit,” Emma breathes, tears landing on her cheeks despite her explicit refusal to cry over this and she doesn’t know what to do next. Her whole body is shaking and she hopes she’s not going into shock. That would suck. “Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit, God, that hurts.”

She keeps talking, muttering curses to herself. No one comes. And Emma isn’t sure how long she sits there, but it’s got to be at least half an hour and she can’t stand up. She tries several times.

“Ok, ok,” Emma chants, twisting to try and grab her phone out of her back pocket. The screen is cracked now, which seems to make more sense than just about anything, but Emma can still make a phone call and her thumb hovers above her contacts list for a moment.

She calls Mary Margaret.

Mary Margaret answers on the second ring.

And, somehow, doesn’t hit traffic on the FDR.

Or let Emma go home alone. Because she broke her goddamn ankle. And it might actually be the first time she’s let a guy get away, but some vaguely petty part of Emma’s brain is quick to also point out she let Killian get away several days before and her phone dies before she gets back to her apartment.

Mary Margaret goes home with her and stays with her and Emma knows it’s only a matter of time before she hears the not-so-soft knock on the door at six forty-five on New Year’s Eve.

Mary Margaret is cooking.

“Is your door locked?” Mary Margaret asks, not bothering to stop stirring whatever it is she’s stirring.  

Emma shakes her head, trying, and failing to get the remote off her coffee table. “I live in the middle of Manhattan. Also, what exactly is it we’re watching?”  
  
“Do you not want to be watching the New Year’s Rockin’ Eve preshow?”  
  
“Why is this still on? Why is there a preshow? Why do we as a society allow Ryan Seacrest to keep hosting things? He’s so awkward. It’s painful to watch.”

The person at the door knocks again. It doesn’t sound like one person. Emma is going to seriously mess up her throat if she keeps groaning. “That was certainly a lot of questions for someone who claims to not care about New Year’s Rockin’ Eve,” Mary Margaret says, moving towards the door with a bowl on her hip and Emma is only too aware that they’re not talking about New Year’s Rockin’ Eve.

The lock clicks and there’s a few mumbled words spoken in the doorway, quiet promises to _behave_ and _we went over the rules in the car over here_ and Emma can’t help but grown again. She slides further into the corner of the couch, bringing a blanket down with her in the process and Ruby is holding a plate of baked goods she absolutely, positively did not bake when she stalks into the living room.

“Why didn’t you call me?”

“Where’d you get those cookies?” Emma challenges, and Ruby practically growls in response.

“Is it bad?”  
  
“You’re the one who brought the cookies, not me.”  
  
“Are you on morphine or something? If you’re on morphine, then I can almost rationalize this.”  
  
“This?”

Ruby nods, and Mary Margaret mutters something that sounds a hell of a lot _this is not what we agreed on_. “This,” Ruby repeats. “Making ridiculous decisions and going after some creep in Mott Haven. You know how sketchy Mott Haven is?”  
  
“I’m perfectly aware of how sketchy Mott Haven is. I’d imagine that’s why the lowlife I was trying to get back to jail was hanging out in Mott Haven.”  
  
“You’re avoiding my question.”  
  
“There have just been so many, it’s been difficult to keep track.”  
  
Ruby deflates at that, some of the fight almost visibly falling out of her and Emma resists the urge to make a quip about fangs retracting. “Have I apologized for...everything in the last twenty-four hours?”  
  
“My phone is broken.”  
  
“Ah that sucks.”  
  
“Yeah, it’s almost as bad as the broken ankle.”  
  
“It’s broken?” Ruby shouts, and Emma winces when it sounds like the words reverberate off her walls. David clicks his tongue in reproach. “What? You didn’t mention that. I just knew you were hurt and...well, you called M’s and--”

“--You are a newlywed,” Emma reasons. “You should not be driving me to the ER two days before New Year’s.”

“You don’t have to keep using that as an excuse.”

“It’s not an excuse.”  
  
“Eh,” Mary Margaret contradicts, and Emma doesn’t entirely expect that. She’s kind of forgotten Mary Margaret is standing there.

Emma tilts her head. The ice on her ankle is leaving a small puddle on her coffee table. “Was that an unvoiced opinion, Mary Margaret?” she asks. “Or just a rather sweeping judgment?”  
  
“A little bit of both.”  
  
“We’ve all got a little bit of both,” David adds. “Some of us more than others.”  
  
“Ok, well, there’s no need to be a jerk about it,” Ruby grumbles, moving to perch on the edge of the table and she hisses when she notices the condensation. “When’s the last time you changed your ice? Should you be alternating with heat?”

“The doctor said ice until some of the swelling went down,” Mary Margaret says before Emma can answer.

“How long is that going to take?”  
  
“Well, he said it was a clean break, so that’s a good thing and--”  
  
“--Is it?”  
  
“Yeah, he said athletes come back quicker from clean breaks than like...I don’t know shards of bone or something.”  
  
“Emma’s not an athlete.”  
  
“Hey,” Emma snaps, but no one is paying attention to her and Ruby keeps jerking back and forth. It makes grabbing a cookie very difficult.

Mary Margaret makes a dismissive noise in the back of her throat. “True, but she does do physical things regularly and the doctor was pretty adamant she’d be up sooner rather than later, but then he also kept talking about the ice and, well, her ankle is kind of...purple.”  
  
“What?” Ruby screeches, Emma squeezing her eyes closed like that will make the noise less abrasive. She’s fairly certain she’s had the same headache for the last six days now.

“This is why we’re constantly icing,” Mary Margaret says. “There’s a whole plan and--”

“--And I didn’t know the plan.”  
  
“Well, you were just getting home and--”  
  
“--If Emma’s dying, then I want to know and Belle wants to know and she’s not totally alone and--”  
  
“And we’d all really like to make sure you’re ok,” David says, quietly but with enough _something_ that everyone in the apartment seems to freeze. Emma wouldn’t be surprised if Ryan Seacrest froze in Times Square too. “You know...maybe more than just your ankle.”  
  
“My ankle and my overall state of being are not intrinsically related,” Emma mutters. David doesn’t try to hide his scoff. Ruby rolls her eyes.

“Ok, well, that was just incredibly bad,” Mary Margaret says. “You’ve got to practice that if you want us to believe you.”  
  
“We’ve known you way too long, that’s why,” Ruby mumbles conspiratorially. That time she winks. “Almost as if we can tell when you’re really feeling something.”

“God, you should practice that too.”  
  
“I wasn’t actually trying to lie. Emma was.”

“The judgments just keep on coming, don’t they?” Emma asks, and they’ve apologized to each other more in the last week than they have in the entire time they’ve known each other.

“And you keep dodging the question,” David points out.

She sighs, shoulders slumping with the force of it, but he’s right about that too and Mary Margaret might actually be baking something and if the scent is anything to go by, she’s definitely making cinnamon rolls. Emma’s heart thuds painfully in her chest.

It makes her ankle hurt.

Being awake makes her ankle hurt.

“We didn’t want…” Mary Margaret starts, moving back into the living room and letting David slings his arm around her shoulders. Emma’s probably ruined his proposal plans. Again. Maybe. She’ll feel bad if she wins that fifty bucks. “We’re sorry that we made you feel as if you had to bring someone home. As if you coming home with us wouldn’t just be enough.”  
  
It would probably be more comfortable if Emma’s ankle just fell off her body at this point.

“I know that,” she mutters, met almost immediately with three matching sounds of disbelief. “You know, in theory.”  
  
“We’re not playing a game here, Em,” David says.

“And I don’t think Jones was either,” Ruby adds. Emma snaps her head up so quickly, her neck cracks and her spine shifts and she nearly knocks her ice on the table. It’s mostly a plastic bag of slightly tepid water now. “It doesn’t make any sense for him to come back with you.”  
  
David swats at her shoulder. “What? I know, I know, and I agree with M’s, obviously, we shouldn't always be constantly trying to set Emma up with someone, but you know, love conquers all and she could probably use an emergency contact and--”  
  
“--Rubes,” three voices shout and she throws a piece of cookie at David.

“But,” Ruby repeats pointedly. “I’m just saying. Killian Jones was staring at Emma the entire wedding. They were both gone for awhile and then they came back and they were dancing and laughing and…” She shrugs when no one cuts her off. “A guy who’s not actually feeling something wouldn’t go to Storybrooke, follow the schedule and then look like he did when me and Belle showed up.”  
  
“Well, you were kind of yelling at him,” David mutters. She throws another cookie.

“If you keep getting crumbs all over my apartment, I’m going to strangle you,” Emma warns.

Ruby does not look threatened. “Can you even stand up?”  
  
“Not really.”  
  
“Then let’s get you some new ice and you can explain something to me.”  
  
Emma doesn’t argue – because she genuinely can’t stand up and she’s fairly positive her ankle is actually getting bigger and that can’t possibly be healthy – but the nerves in the pit of her stomach churn uncomfortably. David hands her a cookie.

“Figured you could use it,” he says with a smile.

“Thanks.”  
  
“You ok?”  
  
“If you start the inquisition before Rubes and Mary Margaret get back out here, they’re both going to be really annoyed with you.”  
  
“It’s not an inquisition, Em,” he says, resting a quiet hand on her slightly bent knee. “It’s how much you smiled while we were home and how easily you laughed and--”  
  
“--You’re getting sentimental on me, Nolan,” she accuses. He nods almost immediately. Probably when he notices the tears in her eyes.

Emma seriously cannot stop crying.

“I’m getting observant,” he corrects. “Did you call him?”

Emma shakes her head. And she’s almost ready for Ruby’s groan and Mary Margaret’s sigh, but she doesn’t look away from David and he doesn’t move his hand off her leg. “That’s stupid,” he says, serious enough that she can’t help but laugh.

“Yeah, I know it is.”  
  
“Ok, can we backtrack for two seconds?” Ruby asks, handing Emma hot chocolate no one asked if she wanted. “Because I’m still incredibly confused how you thought this was going to work. And like...why you haven’t called him.”  
  
“I don’t know that I ever really thought it was going to work,” Emma admits. “That was part of the appeal at first. We kind of knew each other, M’s thought we’d had a bad date, but the spirit of Christmas would do something and then we’d just get through the weekend.”  
  
The looks on their faces feel as if they cut their way through Emma – a mix of disappointment and sadness and being there since the very beginning. She grits her teeth, staring at her knees, but that only leads to staring at David’s hand as well and...damn.

She shouldn’t have called Killian to begin with.

She shouldn’t have done any of this to begin with.

She should call Killian now.

“That’s not really what I meant,” Emma whispers.

Mary Margaret drops next to her, an understanding look on her face that only makes Emma feel like more of a complete and utter dick. “I get it,” she says. “We are...overbearing.”  
  
“That’s one word for it,” Ruby laughs.

“Rubes, you literally tried to destroy Killian as soon as you got out of the car.”  
  
“Ok, no I did not. I just...wasn’t expecting it.”  
  
“Expecting what?” Emma asks, and it feels like an incredibly important question.

“For the two of you to be staring at each other like you had only recently discovered the sun.”  
  
“Or that the other one was the sun,” David amends.

“Either or, really.”

“It was very clearly and obviously romantic.”  
  
“And you only saw the end,” Mary Margaret mumbles, working a knowing laugh out of Ruby. “They disappeared at one point on Christmas Eve.”  
  
“Oh, can we not talk about that?’ David groans. Emma’s eyes widen to a size that cannot possibly be healthy, head snapping between a close-to-gloating Mary Margaret and an actually blushing David and Ruby’s laugh is going to make the neighbors complain.

“Before or after the pie?”  
  
“After. Emma didn’t buy pie.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“We made pie,” Emma whispers, not sure why she’s adding fuel to this particular fire, but it seems important and she’s still not one-hundred percent certain it was his mom’s recipe. She’s, like, ninety-nine point nine percent certain.

Once she can stand up on her own, she’s totally going to drive to Boston.

Probably.

Maybe.

She’s not sure what she can say to fix this.

“You made pie?” Ruby repeats skeptically. “Like...whoopie pie?”  
  
David’s head actually falls into his hands, the noise he makes not entirely human, and Mary Margaret nearly chokes on the cookie she’s eating. Ruby just arches an eyebrow.

“I’m not answering that question,” Emma says.

“Sounds like an answer.”  
  
“It’s not.”  
  
“You like him?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Ruby’s other eyebrow nearly flies off her face. “Wow, I wasn’t expecting that so quickly. Are you sure you’re not on Morphine?”  
  
“I’m capable of having real, human emotions without artificial stimulants.”  
  
“New year, new you, huh?”  
  
Emma’s laugh is a little strained, but it’s a laugh all the same and it feels kind of nice. “Yeah, something like that,” she mumbles. “It was...ok, so I totally played myself.”  
  
“Yeah, I think you might have and I wasn’t even there.”  
  
“He gave her a ten-out-of-ten at karaoke,” Mary Margaret says. “And my dad told me about the mistletoe incident.”  
  
“There was a mistletoe incident?”  
  
“Do we really have to talk about this?” David begs, but both Mary Margaret and Ruby brush him off and Emma’s smile feels almost natural.

“No one is keeping you here, Nolan,” Ruby hisses. “There was a mistletoe incident?”

Emma nods. “And some other incidents. But--”  
  
“--No, no, Emma, you cannot do that,” Mary Margaret snaps, an out-of-character edged to her voice. “That’s...ok, so it may have started strange. And you may have gone into it thinking that it was going to end or had to end or we wouldn’t want you there if it was just you there which, again, is ridiculous.”  
  
“So you’ve mentioned,” Emma says.

“Because I want you to believe it. We thought it when you were twelve and we think it now and we will think it whenever and we’ll...I don’t know, you can use our pie as your pie and--”  
  
“--We’ve got to find a different way to say that,” Ruby mutters, David barely keeping his laugh contained.

“The specifics of it aren’t important. It doesn’t matter. What does matter is how much we love you, Emma Swan. All year, but especially at Christmas because no one does Christmas better than us and you are part of that us. On an indefinite basis. No matter who you bring home.”  
  
She’s crying. She’s not sure if she actually stopped, but the specifics of that don’t matter either and David squeezes her knee when Emma actually sniffles.

“But,” he adds. “If you get to bring home a guy who stares at you like every constellation in the sky, then that’s kind of a bonus for us. We’re team Emma happiness.”  
  
“Every constellation, huh?” Ruby asks, twisting to glance at David. He nods.

“Take my exaggerated point for what it’s worth.”  
  
“No, he may know that,” Emma objects, and Mary Margaret looks triumphant. “He, uh...he was in the Navy. That’s like a sailor thing, right? Knowing the stars or something?”  
  
There are several nods and a few passably interested hums – a valiant attempt not to ask more questions that Emma will eventually appreciate. She twists her fingers together when the next few words seem to spill out of her mouth.

“I told him about Neal,” she says, ignoring whatever sounds her friends make at that particular revelation. “And that Christmas. And coming to Storybrooke. And there was a lot more than the mistletoe incident. But, I...ok, M’s you can’t interrupt.” Emma glances up at her own pitiful joke, Mary Margaret staring slack jawed at her. “The plan was not this. It was the opposite of this. It was supposed to be easy and it’d be some guy who came home and then was never heard from again, but…”

“You like him,” Mary Margaret finishes.

Emma nods. “And I’m being the world’s biggest idiot about it.”  
  
“Ah, that’s patented Emma,” Ruby muses, fingers flashing over her phone when she, presumably, updates Belle on what’s going on. “You really  
didn’t call him?”  
  
“I really didn’t call him. I told him that he went above and beyond what I asked him to do and then I drove out of Boston.”  
  
“Oh my God, Em.”  
  
“Please don’t. Anything you’ve said, I’ve already rationalized and unrationalzied and, that’s not a word either, so don’t bother mentioning that either.”  
  
Ruby laughs lightly, a quick salute that’s only a little patronizing. “There had to be a reason he agreed to go with you.”

“And,” David says softly, leaning towards Emma like he’s talking to Roland or Henry. It’s even more patronizing than the salute. “You don’t have to immediately assume everything is going to blow up in your face by default. He drank the wine.”  
  
“He drank the wine,” Ruby shouts. She jumps up, nearly knocking Emma’s leg off the table in the process and they’re a mess of explanations and more shouted questions and _where’s your phone charger, just plug it in and call him_ and it’s so loud that, at first, none of them hear the knock on the door.

The second knock is a little more intent.

Like the knocker is determined. Or impatient. Or impatiently determined.

Ruby glances around – like she’s checking to make sure they’re all present and accounted for, and her brows pull low when she can’t answer the question she hasn’t actually voiced yet.

The third knock is more a rap of knuckles and a hint of frustration and all four of them turn towards the sound.

“Probably the Chinese,” Mary Margaret reasons. “I ordered just...way too much food.”  
  
“She knew we were coming,” Ruby whispers to Emma with a smile. She never actually had sat down, so it’s not much of a surprise when she jogs towards the door, the fourth knock sounding a little resigned to being ignored and Emma can barely hear her when she mumbles _whoa_ on the other side of the apartment.

It’s difficult over the sound of the music.

The song itself is muffled – likely coming from headphones that had only recently been in ears – but it’s suddenly all Emma can hear and all she can think about and she inhales sharply when she hears the chorus, words imprinted on her recent memory and possibly her heart and--

“Yeah, it’s not the Chinese,” Ruby announces, moving back into the living room with footsteps following her and Killian’s eyes widen as soon as they land on Emma.

And her decidedly broken ankle.

“Shit,” he mutters, and Emma’s laugh is totally out of place considering the sound of his voice and the look on his face and she can’t figure out how he got here.

Her gaze snaps towards Ruby. Who immediately shakes his head. “Wasn’t me. No one told me until this morning.”  
  
“Ariel told me,” Killian says, not taking his eyes away from Emma. He looks exhausted, like the feelings she’s been feeling for the last six days have been transferred directly to his face. “Belle told her, I guess. And she said you, shit, Swan, did you break your ankle?”  
  
There’s a tremor to his voice, a shake that rattles its way down Emma’s spine and finds a spot next to the guilt in the center of her soul and the frustration between every one of her ribs and those seemingly always-there nerves in the pit of her stomach. She nods. “The fence was super icy. My foot slipped.”  
  
He exhales, body moving forward and arm darting towards her before he can stop himself. She wishes he wouldn’t stop himself.

She’s kind of made sure that happens.

“That happened at work?”  
  
“Yeah,” Emma mumbles. “The guy was a dick. Forgery and he made a bunch of jokes and there was some very unnatural banter and the whole thing hurt like hell.”  
  
“I’d imagine that happens when you break actual bones.”

“We went to the doctor.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“The doctor said it was a clean break,” Mary Margaret reports, and Killian hums like he’s also a medical professional.

Emma can’t settle on what to look at. Her eyes keep flitting across his face, taking in every shift in expression – the quirk of his eyebrows and the twitch of his lips, patchy color on his cheeks as if he ran up the three flights of stairs it would take to get to her front door. There are bags under his eyes and it probably isn’t, but it looks like his hair is longer, curling slightly under his right ear and Emma bites her lip when Killian reaches up to tug on it.

“Where did you park?” Emma asks, a sudden question that’s not entirely rational. None of this has been entirely rational though and she _likes_ him. And he’s standing in her apartment. Belle must have given Ariel the address.

Or he asked Belle.

All of their friends need a lesson in boundaries.

And, like, thank you cards or something.

“Somewhere illegally, I think,” Killian says. He takes a cautious step closer to Emma’s outstretched leg, eyes darting across her body and lingering on her foot. “That looks incredibly purple.”  
  
“It’s broken. Aren’t you worried about getting a ticket?”  
  
“Not particularly.”  
  
She’s not sure what sound she makes. It’s ridiculous though, she knows that, a scoff and guffaw and the audible version of visibly swooning and Ruby is already trying to tug Mary Margaret and David towards the door. “Well,” Ruby says. “I feel like this is our cue or something. Jones, if you get a ticket, let Nolan know and he can probably get you off or something.”  
  
“I can’t do that,” David argues. “Also Emma can’t actually stand up, so you’re going to have to change her ice.”  
  
“I am not an invalid,” Emma growls.

“Eh. I’m serious, are you going to change her ice?”  
  
It feels like a challenge and an expectation and Emma doesn’t hold her breath, but she also doesn’t exhale and that is absolutely the definition of holding her breath. Killian nods. “Of course.”

“Ok, good. Also, Em, you’re not going to win tonight, so, FYI.”  
  
Emma gapes at him. “Wait, what?” Mary Margaret asks, but Ruby is doing her best to dislocate her shoulder at this point and Killian’s still staring at Emma and she shouldn't be surprised they’ve delved into farce this quickly.

“Nothing, babe, nothing. New ice soon, Jones. We’ll see you later, Em.”  
  
“Sure,” Emma mumbles, and that requires her to exhale. The door slams behind them when they leave, a jolt of _something_ working through the air that may just be expectation and hope and Emma’s not usually good at either one of them, but her eyes dart towards Killian again like those goddamn magnets are back and his almost-there smile does far too many things to every single inch of her.

“I’m sorry if you get a ticket,” she whispers. She’s an idiot.

Killian laughs, nodding towards the coffee table and it takes Emma a moment to realize he’s asking permission to sit down. She nods. And waves her hand. Seriously, the world’s biggest idiot.

“That’s still not your fault, Swan,” Killian says. “Your ankle is really broken? Ariel wasn’t sure.”

“I don’t...I don’t totally understand what’s happening here.”  
  
“You hurt your ankle.”  
  
“But you’re here.”  
  
His tongue flashes between his lips as soon as the words are out of her mouth, and Emma’s not sure if she should regret them. Probably. That’s been her mindset for most of the week. “Yeah,” Killian wavers. “I, uh...I’m not sure I’ve really had one coherent thought in the last six hours or so, if I’m being honest.”  
  
“It took you six hours to get here?”  
  
“It’s New Year’s Eve, love, there’s a considerable amount of traffic in Manhattan.”  
  
It feels as if her heart flies out of her chest, and it threatens to burst into confetti and rainbows and fireworks are kind of appropriate considering the holiday, as soon as he calls her _love_. Emma mumbles _right, right_ under her breath and Killian’s laugh is distinctly lacking in any kind of humor when he leans forward to stop her from jerking her leg forward.

“You’re going to hurt yourself even more.”  
  
“I’m fine.”  
  
“Well, that’s good because I am absolutely losing my mind.”  
  
Emma blinks. “What?”  
  
“I’ve gotten some increasingly scathing reviews of my entire mindset in the last week or so, from both Ariel and Scarlet who seem to think I misplaced my brain at some point because I’ve been walking around in some kind of fog since Christmas.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I can’t...Emma, I can’t get you out of my head and I genuinely think it may be driving me insane.”  
  
“That sounds kind of aggressive, actually.”  
  
He scoffs, a flash to his gaze that makes Emma smile and the tension in her shoulders nearly evaporates. She almost forgets about her ankle. “Yeah, it kind of is,” Killian agrees. “But...Belle told Ariel you’d gotten hurt and it might have been bad and I...shit, every single thing I came up with was worse than the last thing and A didn’t know what had actually happened, but she said Ruby was going to see you and I didn’t really think. I got in my car and I started driving and Belle’s probably researching ways to commit your friends without them realizing what you're doing because I think I mostly just screamed at her to give me your address once I got over the bridge.”  
  
The words get more manic the longer he keeps talking, and Emma’s breathing through her mouth. It can’t be very attractive, but her body feels as if it’s systematically shutting down and he came to New York. Because he thought she was hurt.  
  
Because he was worried.

Because he was worried about her.

“I can’t get you out of my head, either,” Emma whispers. Killian’s jaw drops.

“What?”  
  
“I feel like we’re going in circles.”  
  
“It’s entirely possible.”  
  
She laughs softly, letting her eyes fall closed and her head fall forward and she’s almost not surprised when his fingers graze over the side of her jaw. “It was an insane plan,” she mutters. “Absolutely insane. But I thought it’d give me some breathing room from my friends and my family and…” Emma lifts her head to find Killian staring at her, that same bit of wanting she’d been almost certain of in Storybrooke back on her face. “You told Aurora we didn’t want her key lime pie.”  
  
“It’s not even remotely festive, Swan.”  
  
“I know it’s not. But...no one had ever really done that. For me, I mean. I would have bought the pie and laughed about its lack of festivity and you wouldn’t let that happen. Like you cared and that...I can’t wrap my head around that.”  
  
“That’s decidedly depressing, love.”  
  
“It’s totally depressing. And I was ready for that all weekend. I was ready to just go through the motions and fake the whole thing.”  
  
“I didn’t fake anything.”  
  
“Neither did I.”

There’s no joke, no twisted eyebrows or vaguely attractive smirk. There’s just honest and certainty and Killian’s fingers lace through Emma’s as soon as he finds her hand.

“If I tell you that you were the gift I wasn’t entirely expecting because I was too afraid to actually ask for it, are you going to make fun of me?”  
  
Killian grins, tongue pressed to the corner of his mouth and Emma shivers when his lips brush over her knuckles. “On an indefinite basis, love.”

“Then I’m not going to say that.”  
  
“Probably a good idea.”  
  
“It’s more like Miracle on 34th Street anyway.”  
  
“That so?”  
  
Emma hums. “Yeah, you know without the kid. Maureen O’Hara doesn’t believe in much and doesn’t believe in romance or Santa Claus and then Santa Claus shows up and Fred? Is his name Fred?”  
  
“This is your reference, Swan, not mine.”  
  
“I think it’s Fred. Anyway. He shows up and he believes in Santa and there are letters and the US Postal service and then Natalie Wood gets her house on Long Island.”  
  
“Are you suggesting you want a house on Long Island?”  
  
“I mean, not yet. But you know, I don’t know. I’m open to the idea of Santa Claus and dating Fred. For real this time.”  
  
It’s easily the single most convoluted explanation of feelings in the history of romance, but it gets Killian to smile and Emma doesn’t expect the kiss. She hopes and that feels kind of in the spirit of things. The couch creaks when Killian leans against it.

And Emma feels as if she’s just waking up or only recently rediscovering oxygen, Killian’s fingers in her hair and her arms around his neck. They’re cautious with each other, both almost painfully aware of Emma’s decidedly purple ankle, and that’s only kind of frustrating, but she really doesn’t want to fuck up her ankle and she really, really missed kissing Killian.

He rests his forehead against hers when they break apart, smile still there. “Why’d you run, Swan?”  
  
“Why’d you agree to come home with me?”  
  
“I asked you first.”  
  
“I told you I wanted to date you.”  
  
“I drove to New York after convincing myself you were dead.”  
  
“I’m not dead.”  
  
Killian sighs, another quick kiss to her lips. “I know, love. And eventually my pulse will realize that’s a real thing.”  
  
“I’m sorry. For the pulse thing and the running thing, but that’s also kind of my thing and everything was so good. It was so easy to...just let everyone think we were whatever we were because--”  
  
“--It kind of felt like that’s exactly what we were?”  
  
“Exactly. And then it all blew up and I wasn’t sure I could deal with hearing that it was actually fake because I didn’t want it to be and I’ve never...I’ve never brought anyone home, and it was so easy for you to be home. It was so easy for you to feel like home. That shouldn’t happen.”  
  
She doesn’t mean to whisper the last few words, but her voice clearly does not care and Killian tucks his thumb under her chin when she tries to avoid his gaze. “It makes for a pretty good Hallmark movie, don’t you think?”  
  
“It’s way too angsty for a Hallmark movie.”

“Ah, yeah, that may be true,” Killian agrees, and he can’t seem to stop kissing her. He presses one to her cheek and the bridge of her nose, another just under her left eye and three across her forehead. Emma wonders if he’s following a path only he can see, but realizes almost immediately that she absolutely does not care one way or another as long as he doesn’t stop.

He doesn’t.

That seems important.

“But the Hallmark movies admittedly probably don’t start with a good amount of lecherous staring and selfish decisions, so…”

Emma hums distractedly at that particular string of words, moving away from the reach of his lips to blink blearily at him. “Selfish? How?”  
  
“You weren’t concerned with the lecherous staring?”  
  
“Killian!”  
  
He practically growls when she shouts her name, tilting his head and catching her lips and that’s a little more aggressive. Emma nips at his lower lip, solely to get him to make _that_ sound, and she nearly fist pumps when she does.

That would probably ruin the moment.

“God, I was so worried about you,” he says, and it sounds like the words fly out of him. Emma’s heart grows more than three sizes. Thirty-three sizes and then some.

“You’re bouncing around the conversation quite a bit.”  
  
“I know, I know, but…”  They dissolve into more kissing and more roaming hands, only stopping when Emma manages to kick her ice on the ground. “Swan.”  
  
“Ok, you do not get to chastise me for that. This making out is entirely your fault.”  
  
“Eh…”

“Explain your lecherous ways then.”  
  
Killian smirks. It’s stupid. “Well, I did kind of admit to it before. I knew who you were even before you gave that rather memorable speech and then you did give the rather memorable speech and I was...intrigued.”  
  
“That sounds kind of clinical.”  
  
“Not in that dress. Stupid attractive.”  
  
Emma burrows her head into his chest, Killian’s arm working its way around her waist to keep her pinned against him. He kisses the top of her hair. “Anyway,” Killian continues. “You were so certain about love and its ability to change people and that was fascinating and then you had that look on your face the entire time Mary Margaret and David were talking to you and--oh, was there an engagement yet?”  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“I think they were a little preoccupied parenting me.”  
  
“I doubt they regret that, Swan.”  
  
She hums noncommittally, letting her fingers card through the back of her hair. “Keep telling your story, please and thank you.”  
  
“Well, you had that look and then you left and Mary Margaret tried to turn me to stone. And then...I don’t know, I was walking before I’d even considered it. It was strangely like tonight, there were just more miles this time, but I barely said a word to Ariel and it was like something flipped as soon as I started talking to you.”  
  
“A good flip?”  
  
“The best flip,” Killian promises. “And then you call me and come up with this ridiculous plan and it’s...I normally go to Ariel’s, but she was going to be at Eric’s and I was going to be by myself. I wasn’t really upset about that until you called.”  
  
“God, this is the worst story,” Emma groans.

“It’s not, I promise, love. You explained the schedule and the system and the plans and it was, well, it sounded like every Christmas I wanted when I was a kid and that one Christmas I had when I was a kid and I found myself saying yes on the idea that maybe I could be part of that.”

Emma’s mouth hangs open. She’s breathing far too loudly. “So I said yes and it was greedy and selfish and probably the most childish thing I’d ever done, but you asked and I wanted and so I took my opportunity as it were. But then we got there and something changed.”

“Did it?” Emma asks.

“Rather quickly, actually. Almost as soon as we were informed there was only key lime pie available.”  
  
“The pie?”  
  
“The pie,” Killian repeats, thumb brushing under her eye. There’s a tear there. “Because I suddenly wasn’t there to maybe reminisce about something I had once, I was there...for you. And I wanted to be there for you. It was very easy to be there for you.”  
  
“Seems to be a trend.”  
  
“I’d like it to be.”

Emma takes a deep breath, and she hates that she closes her eyes, wants to spend several eternities memorizing the look on Killian’s face, but her body doesn’t seem to care about that either and one person can only deal with so many emotions at once.

She can only deal with so many emotions at once.

“Would you?” Emma asks, and his answering smile is a little nervous. She’s a little nervous.

She’s incredibly excited.

It feels like she’s radiating with hope.

“I think we’re pretty good at dating, don’t you think?”  
  
“Did we actually go on a date?”  
  
“I’m not sure if we did, technically. But plans were made, weren’t they? And, uh…” He reaches in his back pocket, twisting and balancing and he makes a face when Emma laughs at it, but she feels lighter than she has all week and that’s almost strange considering her distinct inability to stand up on her own. “Merry Christmas, love.”  
  
It’s a keychain – cold when it falls into her palm and Emma rubs the pad of her thumb over it, touching every crevice and makeshift crater and that’s exactly what it is because it’s the goddamn moon.

He got her the moon.

“You want the moon? Just say the word and I’ll throw a lasso and pull it down.”

“I’ll take it,” Emma mutters. “Then what?”  
  
“I always thought the next part was kind of weird.”  
  
“You’re not going to tell me I should eat the moon?”  
  
Killian shakes his head. “I’m not. But I’d settle for agreeing to that date. I’d like to continue to be your boyfriend for the foreseeable future.”  
  
“I’m not sure George ever told Mary that.”  
  
“Maybe in _White Christmas_.”  
  
“I don’t think I’m Rosemary Clooney though.”  
  
“Better singer anyway.”  
  
Emma laughs, another kiss and more smiles and she can’t bring herself to let go of the keychain. “Returning stuff is a lot of effort anyway.”  
  
“That’s the spirit.”  
  
“You really drove here from Boston?”  
  
“I did,” Killian nods. “And, uh...well, it’s not entirely certain yet, but Scarlet’s finally started seeing sense and he thinks it might be a good idea to maybe talk about the Long Island aspects of piracy. So I can’t promise a house yet, but maybe an apartment. Some space on the sink. At least some of the bed.”  
  
“Some?”  
  
“You’re a bed pirate, love.”  
  
She shouldn’t be charmed by it, but it’s too easy and too normal and Killian’s eyes are far too blue when Emma makes a face at him. “Do you think it’s against the rules to watch _A Charlie Brown Christmas_ a week after Christmas?”

“If it is, I absolutely do not care.”  
  
“Rebel.”  
  
“Of the festive variety. Are you telling me you have _A Charlie Brown Christmas_ readily available to watch, Swan?”  
  
“On DVD. But if you tell anyone that, I’ll deny it. Loudly.”  
  
He kisses her. And smiles. And kisses her again. “It’ll be our secret, love.”

And she cries at the end, because she always cries at the end of _A Charlie Brown Christmas_ and Killian kisses her cheeks until there aren’t any tears left. He switches her ice because he absolutely set an alarm and they fall asleep well before midnight, a tangle of limbs on her couch.

David doesn’t ask Mary Margaret to marry him until Valentine’s Day – a pointed _it’s romantic, Emma,_ shot her direction as soon as he drops to one knee in their apartment, but she just hums and nods and Killian kisses the top of her hair.

It goes from there.

There are more holidays, regularly recognized or not, and Killian doesn’t ever get an apartment on Long Island. He moves into Emma’s. On Flag Day.

And she gets her exam results back on Slurpee Day. They get free Slurpees from 7-11.

There’s Halloween and Thanksgiving and another Christmas in Storybrooke and Ruth doesn’t ever buy Killian his own stocking. The thought regularly makes Emma bite her lip.

And there’s New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day, a future and a life and more worries and they say _I love you_ every day and Emma takes a cab to the Barnes and Noble on Fifth Avenue on what she later learns is National Walk to Work Day to buy Killian’s book.

She makes him sign it.

And eventually there’s another trip to Storybrooke and new members of the family with new stockings and Killian’s hand finds the small of Emma’s back. “You want to take a walk, love?”

She nods, moving towards the harbor and the docks before she realizes he’s directing her there and she’s not really surprised when he asks, because she’d kind of been hoping, but that felt a little selfish and she practically screams  _yes_ in his face.

There’s shouts from the other end of the street, a small crowd that had followed them because none of them had ever learned boundaries or collective control and Emma ignores all of them.

She jumps forward, arms around Killian’s neck and a smile on her face and she says _yes_ again, like she’s trying to make sure he knows and believes and he tastes like Millionaire’s pie and mulled wine when she kisses him.

“Merry Christmas,” she whispers when she pulls back, his answering smile somewhere close to blinding.

“Merry Christmas, love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there's one thing you guys can count on, it is happily ever after from every story I write. I love love too much not to have it that way. Thank you again for every click, comment and kudos - even when you were certain the angst was too much. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it and have for the last few years I've been spewing words at you. I hope you and yours all have the best holiday and you all get what you want with a delicate sprinkling of snow that doesn't make it difficult to drive.
> 
> Come flail on [Tumblr](http://welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com/) if you're down.


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